


Blinded

by spinninginfinityboy



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Bisexuality, Canon-Typical Violence, Flashbacks, M/M, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Organized Crime, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season/Series 02, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2020-01-15 14:44:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 26,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18501139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinninginfinityboy/pseuds/spinninginfinityboy
Summary: When Tommy met James for the first time, he didn't pay him much heed, other than perhaps a moment of relief at Ada's choice of lodger. A second chance encounter, however, leads him down a path he's never walked before; a path of underground speakeasies, crimes of passion, uneasy alliances, and the mysterious Fergus Donovan, who Tommy is certain has a secret. Fire sparks, lies are told, and lessons are learned.Set approximately during season 2, updated approximately every few days.





	1. Part One - Tommy.

**Author's Note:**

> An alternative summary: if your favourite show doesn't come with queer representation, homemade is fine. I mean seriously, you think they could include that scene with James and not leave me wanting more?
> 
> Tags and rating will be updated as the story progresses, so please keep an eye on those.

“You’re late.”

His feet cease their pacing. Splashes of mud dot the hem of his trousers, too expensive for his part of town and too cheap for this, the only tangible evidence of the time he’s spent waiting. From the far end of the street, under the smog they call sky, a woman approaches. Her voice echoes off the high buildings around them.

“Well maybe I’d have come sooner if you’d have given me any clue as to why we were meeting. It better be important. I’ve got other work to attend to, you know, not like Arthur and the others. I’m not one of your dogs.”

Ash drops from the end of his cigarette and hisses into nothing against the wet, filth-streaked cobbles.

“Not many women in Birmingham who would keep Tommy Shelby waiting.”

“Yeah, well. Not many women here would even think twice. We’re in London now, Tommy. Your name doesn’t mean a thing here.”

“Yet nonetheless, you’ve taken another. Have we really shamed you that deep, Ada?”

They draw face to face, albeit a head’s height difference between them. The look in her eyes would be enough to scare a lesser man into submission, but he’s seen it all before, wasted on childhood tantrums. Tommy nods, offers the shadow of a smile in a greeting Ada does not return. Instead she gathers her coat around herself and fixes him with an icy stare.

“Are you going to keep us out here all day, or are we going to get this over with? And for god’s sake, wipe your boots before you go inside. This isn’t your Garrison.”

Indeed it isn’t. The tearooms Ada had insisted on meeting him in are a little out of the usual price range of either of them, more a way to ensure formality than anything else. As if their family squabbles needed any more tension. Tommy could have done without the reminder that his sister hates him, but a deal is a deal, and a business meeting for high tea is as close to a conversation with Ada as he gets, these days.

He does a lot of things differently these days.

They take their seats in the corner of the room, and look around, though in Tommy’s case it’s less about admiring the interior design and more about knowing his exits. The interior design is spectacular though. Perhaps a little self-consciously so. Chandeliers, mirrors, and small shining lamps dazzle the eye from all angles, driving it in search of escape in one of three directions- upwards, to the ceiling painted in some scene from a play he hasn’t seen in decades; downwards, to the marble tabletops and gilded menus; or outwards, towards the other diners.

While Tommy reaches into his pocket for the property deeds, Ada chooses the latter option. There aren’t many other diners but those there are would be enough to occupy anyone. The habitually rich are a world apart from their upbringing. He used to do their voices for the others, the younger kids, making fun of them to their faces as Arthur learned to dip their pockets behind their back.

A waiter approaches and Tommy goes to wave him away but Ada stops him with another pointed glance.

“If you’ve brought me here,” she says, “you’re going to make it worth my while.”

For a moment Tommy considers arguing but in all honestly it’s probably not worth making a scene. Besides, with Shelby Brothers Ltd. going legitimate he’s sure he can stretch to cover it. Nodding, he allows the waiter to approach. To drink, Ada orders something fancy-sounding he’s never heard of, and a tray of mixed biscuits and sweet things to share. When the waiter turns in his direction, Tommy simply orders a tea. He doesn’t miss the way the man’s nose wrinkles slightly at his accent and simple request.

Fuck them. He’s one of them now, probably makes more in a good day than that waiter does all week, regardless of what airs he might put on. If things in London go to plan - once his plan is finalized, of course, and not quite the nebulous collection of concepts he’s currently working with - maybe he’ll be hobnobbing with the landed gentry some day.

So many idle thoughts today. Maybe it’s time he found another distraction.

And the business at hand will take him a step nearer to the freedom he needs to find that distraction. Tommy shakes his head slightly, pulling out the papers and sliding them smoothly across the marble surface for Ada to see. His hands don’t stay on them a moment more than necessary, anxious not to make himself any more untrustworthy in Ada’s eyes.

“No tricks,” he says, seeing the suspicious flash in her expression. “Not even a thing more you have to do. Just one more paper to sign which my accountant misplaced before. Make everything square. Legal, Ada.”

For a moment she seems to relax, then remembers herself and pulls distrust back around her like her coat.

“And the other one?”

She nods towards the thicker set of papers, tied in a small bundle. 

“An optional extra. I remember you taking in a lodger or two and finding it quite the pleasant arrangement. Some other property has caught my interest and I wondered if- among your other business interests, of course- you might be interested in turning it into a small guesthouse. It would bring good money.”

It’s a good offer. He knows damn well it’s a good offer, and Ada knows too, loath though she might be to admit it. She averts her eyes so he can’t watch her consideration.

The lights sparkle and flash. Up, to the ceiling, and then, with nothing down but papers to avoid, outwards into the room.

Silence falls on their corner. Tommy takes a drink of his tea and checks the time. It’s not that he has anywhere else he needs to be, but wasted time is one thing he can never get back, and it bothers him. Itches under his skin like the scraping of the shovels he still sometimes hears at night. Ada is still looking around, drawing her eyes slowly over each group of diners. The ornate grandfather clock against the wall nearby is ticking maddeningly just out of rhythm, like it needs repaired, and it’s starting to set Tommy’s teeth on edge. He’s about to speak up when suddenly Ada sits up straighter, surprise and recognition dawning in her face. 

Tommy follows her gaze towards two young men who have just entered the tearoom. One is taller, with dark hair, and the other is half-hidden behind him. They’re facing the other direction, looking towards the table the waiter is leading them towards, and he’s too dazzled by the lights to see their reflections in the mirror, but clearly Ada knows something he doesn’t. She calls out, her clear voice cutting across the quiet chatter filling the room.

“Hello, James! Fancy seeing you here.”

The dark-haired young man turns and beams with recognition, before glancing a little awkwardly at his companion. The other man gestures for him to go right ahead, and James leads the way over to the corner where Tommy and Ada are sitting. Tommy recognizes him quickly and feels himself smile. Brief as their last meeting may have been, he liked James. He seemed sweet, and harmless, and clearly had a soft spot for men with a little mystery to them. The other man, though, he is less certain of. He’s paused with the waiter, touching his arm and muttering something, presumably telling him they’ll take their seats in a few moments. Politeness like that goes a long way. Satisfied, he approaches the table too. Tommy gives him a quick once-over. 

This stranger is shorter than James, with a head of auburn curls and an easy smile. Despite wearing a well-tailored suit and waistcoat he seems a little out of place in this kind of restaurant; his jacket is draped over one arm and his shirtsleeves are pushed back to his elbows. His expression is friendly enough but it only takes Tommy a glance at the sinewy, scarred arms to decide he shouldn’t let his guard down just yet. 

James is beaming as he starts to talk. It doesn’t escape Tommy’s notice that James flushes slightly upon seeing his smile.

“Hello Ada. Tommy. I was just passing through, it was for a, uh, a business meeting. Yes. For business, for my writing- he’s got a friend who publishes, you know, and he’s going to pass it on. My writing.”

James bites down on his lip to control the flood of words. It’s almost enough to laugh at, but Tommy simply tucks it away for later, just in case he needs it. Never any sense in being cruel to someone he actually likes. Instead of passing comment Tommy raises an eyebrow and glances at the stranger’s arm, now linked through James’s.

"Well in that case, James, we won’t keep you. But aren't you going to introduce us to your… business associate here?"

The pause, heavy with implication, has exactly the effect Tommy was hoping for. James stammers and looks down, laughing nervously and taking a second or two to compose himself. The red tinge in his cheeks deepens. His companion laughs, squeezes his arm in a reassuring manner, and flashes a calming smile when James looks back up.

"Of course. This is Ada, she rents my rooms, and this is Tommy."

He gestures towards each of them in turn. Ada smiles and takes the hand she’s offered. The stranger kisses the back of it and she laughs.

“I assume everyone I meet in a place like this is deserving of a respectful greeting,” he tells her. There’s a soft, Highland lilt to his voice.

“I could get used to that. It’s been a while since I’ve been treated with respect.”

She throws a pointed glance in Tommy’s direction.

"Nice to meet you," says Tommy, ignoring her last comment in favour of reaching out and shaking the newcomer's hand. The man nods.

"Interesting accent. I'm a bit of a stranger to these parts- not sure if you can tell- and I must admit, I can tell Morningside from Leith but I’ve not yet got the hang of English accents. Where d’you come from?"

He hasn’t released Tommy’s hand, keeping it in a firm grip with his head tilted to one side for just a few seconds too long before he seems to remember himself and lets go. Tommy sits back in his chair and coughs as he answers.

"Birmingham."

The redhead's eyes widen slightly, flickering almost imperceptibly from Tommy's hat to his jacket to the property deeds on the table. The shadow of recognition flickers across his expression. And yet despite the seeming importance of the thought in barely a second the moment passes and he smiles instead. 

"Fergus Donovan. It's a pleasure to meet you, Tommy from Birmingham. You have such striking blue eyes. Shame you keep them hidden away under that peaked cap of yours."

Tommy tilts his head slightly. The hint of a smile lingers around his lips as he carefully removes his cap, placing it gently on the table without dropping his gaze.

Fergus smiles a little wider.

“Birmingham is quite the journey away. What brings you to fair London town?”

“Business,” replies Tommy, ignoring the warning glance Ada shoots him.

“What sort of business are you in?”

“Oh, here and there.” Ada’s glare is beginning to burn the side of his head, but Tommy continues. “At the moment I’m looking at the local real estate market. My sister here and I were just going over the papers necessary for one or two properties that caught my eye.”

It seems as though something about the conversational turn is beginning to make James uncomfortable, as he begins fidgeting slightly. Fergus either fails to notice or simply doesn’t care; if pushed, Tommy would put money on the latter. He could recognize the eyes of a man who notices things.

“Ah, a fellow businessman! I dabble in that area myself. Tell me, residential or commercial?”

“Residential.” The chair creaks as Tommy leans back and folds his arms. “Or, at least, within residential areas.”

“I see. Personally I favour the commercial side of it all. Perhaps I might keep in touch?”

“Perhaps.”

He’s fairly sure he was inscrutable, but Tommy doesn’t like the flash of something in Fergus’s gaze. Straightening up, Fergus offers James his arm once more, holds out a small rectangle of black-edged paper, and smiles.

"Please. My card. I should quite like to meet you again, Tommy from Birmingham, with the peaked cap and those... blinding eyes."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Approximately weekly" is a real rough approximation

It isn’t the last time Tommy sees that card. In fact by the end of his rather tense lunch with Ada he’d somehow acquired a second one, this time tucked inside his jacket pocket and with a few lines written carefully on the reverse. It took talent, picking a man’s pocket to add rather than remove. Tommy was impressed.

That admiration is the only thing keeping him here now, buffeted by the wind coming in off the water. Since Ada has agreed to sign off on the first property, and took the second papers home with her to read over, there’s nothing else between him and Birmingham and Tommy knows where he’d prefer to be standing. London’s docks are always busy, but Tommy isn’t bothering to look around with any keenness. The card had given specific instructions. Either Fergus arrives, or he doesn’t.

“Mr Shelby!”

Right on time. Punctuality is a quality Tommy appreciates in a man. He answers before he turns around.

“Good afternoon, Donovan.”

“Fergus, please.”

The wind is whipping through his hair as Tommy turns to look at him, turning the curls into waves to rival those crashing against the pier below them. He’s wearing a long grey coat, and doesn’t come any closer than strictly necessary, though he does take a half step forward to offer Tommy a cigarette. He refuses. Fergus seems not to take offence, shrugging amiably and cupping his hands around a stuttering match to light it.

“It’s good to see you again,” he says after a moment, lifting his gaze to meet Tommy’s.

“I’m here for a business meeting,” Tommy replies with barely a flicker of acknowledgement. “And I’ve just started getting used to the kind of business meetings where you sit in an office drinking brandy, and everybody leaves their weapons at home. I’d appreciate knowing why this isn’t one of those.”

“I understand.”

A low, heavily weathered brick wall runs along the side of a warehouse. It might once have been a wall to an adjoining room, or perhaps an access ramp to the pier for ease in loading and unloading. Whatever it might once have been, Fergus sits down on it and stares off over the water.

"See the thing is, Tommy, I'm shite at matching names to faces, but I'm right good at descriptions. Somebody told me the other day about the Peaky Blinders trying to get a foothold in old London town here, led by Tommy Shelby buying up property. It’s a lovely thing, isn’t it, what people will let slip after a couple of whiskeys? Well, I am nothing if not a good man. I wondered if maybe we two could help each other out."

"Interesting proposition. We're a long way from Scotland. What brings you south of your border?"

It’s a loaded question, Tommy knows, but one he’s curious to hear answered. Nobody had mentioned any Fergus Donovan around him before and the only thing more dangerous than an enemy you know is a friend you don’t.

Fergus shrugs and waves his cigarette hand dismissively.

"A higher price on my head than usual. I'm used to being in high demand, so to speak, but being a wanted man? Naw. That’s no for me."

The hint of a smile threatens to twitch across Tommy’s lips.

"I see. Tell me- what could you offer us that would be worth more than us handing you over in return for that price on your head?"

At that he receives a look of hurt which could almost pass for genuine. Fergus spreads his arms wide - the scope of possibilities endless, his body language proclaims, the vast, glittering vista of potential stretching far beyond this cold and grimy wharf.

"A whole new market. You assure me that my people - and I'm sure there's Blinders among us already, who I promise you now will be welcome regardless of the outcome of this deal - get to run our bars and businesses with no bother, legal or otherwise. In exchange, I will put you in contact with a whole legion of folks who love to drink, smoke, gamble, and are no lovers of the law. Not even for pay. You would be our primary, if not sole, supplier; you would gain influence in London; and you would, I'm sure, find yourself plenty of incriminating material on several powerful men. Of course, I don't encourage that, but I've heard I can trust you to do only what is necessary."

"And who would 'your people' be, exactly?"

Caught as he rises from his seat Fergus tips his head back and laughs, a wild sound lost in an instant to the wind.

"Please. You've met James, and if I may be so bold - and I may, for I am - he seems to have taken quite a shine to you. Dinnae play foolish with me, Mr Shelby, I expect better than that of you."

They’re face to face again now, no longer at a great distance but close enough for it to be a conversation rather than a stand-off. Of course, Tommy isn’t quite prepared to step down yet. Not even knowing the kind of man he’s dealing with. A step back at a time like this would be a step too far.

“What if I don’t take the deal?”

“Then you walk away, Mr Shelby. I am a man of my word and if you choose to leave peacefully, then peacefully I will leave you in turn.” Fergus paused to reignite his cigarette, which had smoldered to nothing, and took a long drag before continuing. “Of course, if you were not to choose peace… well, I’m sure you remember those influential men I alluded to? They owe me an awful lot more than anybody owes you.”

Tommy nods slowly. Smoke from Fergus’s cigarette is beginning to fill the space between them, but Tommy breathes it in as though it’s nothing. Truth be told it’s fresher than the dockyard air often is.

“I think we can come to an arrangement.”

With a grin, cigarette still held between his teeth, Fergus claps Tommy on the shoulder a little more roughly than a sensible man should.

“Good man. I thought we might. Now- will you walk with me?”

He gestures to the shipyard in general. Something in Tommy’s chest rebels at the thought of being led anywhere but business is business, and something like this – anything to gain the favour of those with power, political or criminal – would certainly help sweeten the deals he had in mind for other London gangs. Just to claw back a sense of control he makes a show of checking his watch. All the while, Fergus watches him, unperturbed and even-headed.

“I can spare some time,” he replies eventually.

“I’m honoured.”

They fall into step, more or less, Tommy’s long strides matching pace with Fergus’s short, purposeful ones. Muck and brickwork shift beneath his feet. Mismatched brick buildings rise and fall away to either side, soot-stained and proud of it like the workers who strode between them. All around the air is thick, heavy with chatter and smoke.

It doesn’t escape Tommy’s notice how many of the men seem to know Fergus. Several of them nod or wave in greeting, and one or two smile or even blush. Fergus meets them all with a grin and occasionally calls out a greeting.

“Who’s the dish, darling?” calls one young man, smirking.

“He’s here for business, and I don’t mean trade,” comes Fergus’s laughing reply. Several young men cackle at that. Tommy hides a smile. He seems to shift so easily between businessman and friend, the change should be startling but really just seems natural.

Tommy can’t figure out where to place him.

He makes threats like a man who intends to keep them, true, but casually enough that it takes a moment for the true intent of his words to land. The same could be said for his business dealings; calm and conversationally spoken, but it was wool wrapped around iron. The man looks young, too – if it wasn’t for the way he spoke Tommy would have thought he’d hardly seen twenty, but his bearing and manner make him appear closer to thirty. Short and strong, yet not exactly broad or stocky; he’s small, really, and seems set on making up for it in personality. Friendly, and honest – at least so far as honesty is possible in times like these – and trustworthy personality, right up until you see the flint sparking in his eyes.

“Are there any more aspects to this trade you’d like to discuss?”

He chooses his words carefully and watches as Fergus’s expression fails to show even a hint of amusement. Good man.

“I’ll send a letter, if it’s all the same to you. Much prefer to have my business dealings written down, made nice and official. Where I grew up, they call that legal.”

“In that case, why are you keeping me?”

Fergus takes a drag of his cigarette and looks up at him with an eyebrow nonchalantly raised.

“You’ve heard the saying ‘know your enemy,’ aye? I like to know my friends, too, just in case they decide they fancy a shot at being enemies later. Saves a lot of time this way.”

Oh, he’s good. Tommy nods outwardly, and inwardly resolves to be better.

“So where are you from?”

“Now, Tommy, I’m sure you asked this already.”

“I did. You didn’t answer.”

With a begrudging nod, and no small hint of respect, Fergus acquiesces.

“All sorts of places. I get about. Build my little businesses all over, collect a few pals as I go, but there’s some folks I don’t want as recognizing me. Whenever they show up, that’s my cue to move along.”

And already things were looking more interesting. Tommy pulls out his own cigarette from an inside pocket and lights it while mentally filing that scrap of information away. Fergus isn’t in many good books, by the sounds of it.

“What have you done that makes recognition so dangerous?” he presses, feeling the tension in the air shift. If Fergus is defensive or guarded, he’s doing a good job of not showing it. His voice is careful and even as he replies.

“Nothing worse than what you already know.”

Alright. A deflection, but a polite one, with a thread or two to pull on. Tommy knows better than to push further too soon. Instead he rummages through his own personal history for something equivalent to offer in return. Hell, if Fergus is as sharp as he seems to want people to think then it’ll make him pause.

“I miss the travelling. Used to sleep outside under the stars sometimes.”

“Travelling?”

Tommy guessed right – a light flush of colour has appeared in Fergus’s cheeks. He redirects the subject quickly though, quickly enough that Tommy isn’t sure he’d have noticed if he wasn’t looking for it.

“You should visit Scotland.”

“I’ve business associates with dealings in Glasgow-“ begins Tommy, but Fergus cuts him off with a scornful laugh.

“Away tae fuck with Glasgow. Get yourself up the highlands, where there’s no damn city smoke for a hundred mile any way you look. You like the stars? They’re something special up there.”

“I don’t tend to sleep outdoors these days,” laughs Tommy. “Not what’s expected from a man in my position. People aren’t so scared of someone when he’s shaking their hand in the suit he slept in, last night’s dirt between his shoulders.”

“Oh, Mr Shelby, I expected better. Did your reputation tell too much? Be reasonable. Nobody with half an ounce of sense would take you less than seriously if you made all your business deals bollock naked.”

Despite himself, Tommy laughs, and finds himself unexpectedly pleased that Fergus laughs too. It’s not exactly professional, but then, this isn’t quite his usual business deal. Usually he approaches other people, and typically with a little more violence. 

“I have another meeting,” he says after a beat, holding out a hand for Fergus to shake. “But it’s been a pleasure. Send me that contract you’re so keen to draw up, I’ll have my lads look over it.”

Fergus shakes his hand confidently, with a warm smile.

“Looking forward to it.”

“As am I.”

As he turns to leave, Fergus speaks again.

“I like you, Tommy.”

Tommy doesn’t look back, but his expression softens for nobody to see. He knows it’s all politics - hell, the last person to use that line on him tried to kill him within a week – but Fergus says it with such casual honesty that for a moment Tommy almost believes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the slang terms used here are Polari, a dialect used since at least the 1800s and spoken primarily by queer people, criminals, fairground workers, and travellers. Fergus and Tommy both have their connections to at least one of those groups, so it stands to reason that when Fergus makes a joke about him ("Here for business, and I don't mean trade" - trade here used as slang for sex or a person you want to have sex with) he might not expect Tommy to catch it and Tommy mentions growing up travelling as a subtle sort of 'I know what you said'. I might be using some of these terms incorrectly for their time period - I try to fact check where I can, but there aren't many easily accessible histories of Polari and I'm yet to find the time to do dissertation-level research into it so for now it's just an amateur interest fueled by wikipedia and repeated rewatchings of Velvet Goldmine.


	3. Chapter 3

True to his word, a few days after their meeting Fergus sends Tommy a carefully laid out sheet of orders, requests, and budgets, with a note to contact him if there will be any further negotiations needed. Printed at the top in delicate copperplate is what Tommy assumes to be the name of the bar; The Green Carnation. The corner of his mouth twitches up in a smile. He remembered hearing about that, once upon a time.

It’s stirring some discomfort in him, to be honest. Of course, whoever a man chooses to engage his own private time with is really no concern of his, or it shouldn’t be at least. Is it disgusting? Well, when you get down to the mechanics of it, it could be rightfully termed disgusting – or at least unpleasant – no matter who might be involved. Is it a sin? A crime?

What it really comes down to, he supposes, is that he’s lived his whole life being seen as disgusting one way or another. Nobody respectable seemed to trust the travelers, and his father was hardly a role model to be proud of. Tommy lies and cheats and hurts every day, and he isn’t shy about admitting it, either. His business partners do the same. He wakes every night with his mind crowded by the faces of the men he’s killed, the men he’s seen killed, and the medals they all went home with when all was said and done. The men who call themselves law are the same men he’s seen do worse things than he could ever imagine. It only stands to reason that if he is to go on considering himself a fair man, then he can’t pass too harsh a judgement on Fergus and the men he drinks with. The men he…

No. Tommy really doesn’t want to dwell on the things Fergus might do, thank you very much. In fact he doesn’t want to dwell on the Carnation at all, let alone it’s short, smiling owner. The orders are for things he can readily get his hands on, the prices and budgets seem reasonable at a glance and he can pass it on now without a second thought. Maybe the new boy, Michael, will take it. His little cousin could use a proper welcome into the family, and he did say he’s good with numbers.

It’s in the out tray. It’s gone. In fact, screw the tray – he’s going out to check in on things at the Garrison, that’ll take him past at least one other family member he can pass it on to. Paperwork isn’t his problem. It just comes addressed to him.

His coat is a familiar weight, a comfort of sorts. Thomas Shelby knows himself to be many things to many people, but most of all, he knows himself to be nothing without the coat and the hat. Not at first. Not at a glance. He could take those off and change his hair, wear a scarf or perhaps a different hat and go invisible, should he choose to. But where’s the fun in that? Now, Tommy Shelby with his coat and his cap and his piercing, icy gaze, that’s the face of the Peaky fucking Blinders, and that gets him an awful lot further. So it’s his hat, his coat, and his cigarette in his hand, and his every other interest can go to hell. Otherwise what the hell is the point of his employing so many damn people? He’s going out.

Michael is in the process of packing up for the day. Tommy can hear him from down the corridor, pushing things hastily into some kind of order and being egged on by Isiah to go for a drink. That isn’t right. It’s not right for him to have less work than Tommy. Who’s the fucking boss here? Who earned it?

At least their laughter fades away when he strides into the room.

“Working hard, I see,” he says coolly with a glance at the hip flask in Isiah’s hand. The young man looks cowed.

“Sorry, Tommy. I only thought we was going for dinner.”

“Dinner will have to wait a while, I’m afraid. Michael – look over this, will you? Let me know if anything seems suspect, and if it all seems fair then pass it on to Arthur and tell him I’ll discuss it with him properly tomorrow.”

“Yes, Tommy,” says Michael, obedient if a little sullen as he takes the papers. “What’s it for?”

“What does that matter?”

Michael sits down and doesn’t respond, seeming to sense – wisely – that it might be best if he kept quiet for a little bit. There’s a beat which Tommy lets hang in the air just a little too long before he answers properly.

“There is a bar in London named the Green Carnation whose owner approached me the other day with a business proposal. I accepted. This sheet here is an order form stating what he wants from us, what he is willing to pay, and we are deciding if we want to accept those conditions or if we should enforce different prices.”

Isiah sniggers, and though he tries to disguise it as a cough he isn’t fast enough.

“Something funny, Isiah?”

Seeing as how it seems this little meeting will take longer than he hoped, Tommy leans against the doorframe and lights a cigarette. The smoke curls gently towards the light and highlights Isiah’s obvious discomfort.

“No, Tommy.”

“Don’t lie to me, you’re too young to be any good at it and too stupid to know it’s not worth trying.”

There’s no threat to his tone, because there doesn’t need to be. Everyone in the room can see plain as day that Tommy holds all the cards. Michael drinks it all in with eager gaze. With an uncomfortable cough, Isiah mumbles something.

“Speak up,” Tommy tells him casually.

“I said that my dad’s told me all about that pub, Tommy.”

“I see. And it’s funny to you that you’ve heard the name of a business partner of ours?”

“Not exactly, but – well, it doesn’t really do with repeating.”

Tommy gives an impatient sigh and glares at the boy, who is beginning to look like he wishes he was somewhere else. After a beat Isiah remembers Michael is watching and in an odd fit of bravado, or perhaps simply foolishness, he raises his chin and smiles.

“Well, Tommy, with a place like that, I reckon the man’s going to be wanting something more than drinks from you. Might even have his own method of payment in mind. Those bent bastards can’t be trusted.”

Tommy keeps his expression impassive but it doesn’t escape his notice that Michael’s eyes widen and he looks down at the sheet with thinly-veiled disgust.

“I’ll decide who we do business with, thank you, Isiah. Payment is in the same currency as any other man.”

“That’s not right, Tommy,” pipes up Michael in protest.

“Who am I to say what isn’t right? So long as he pays what’s due, I’ll look past it. And you,” he adds with a glare, “need to work here more than a handful of days before you get to question me like that.”

Considering the conversation finished, Tommy turns to leave, and hears Michael call “I’ll tell Arthur then!”

“You do that,” he replies, and lets the slam of the closing door drown out any further argument.

At least in the Garrison he’s able to get a private room, not to mention a generous few servings of whiskey. Scotch, to be exact. Tommy thinks idly to himself, round about his third glass, that he still isn’t sure where Fergus comes from. Not Glasgow, that’s for sure, and he certainly isn’t posh enough for Edinburgh, but beyond that Tommy really doesn’t know. He runs an eye over the names on the bottles, sounding them out in his head and on his tongue as he orders. Islay, Glenlivet, Glenfiddich, Talisker. Maybe some travelling is a little overdue. If Fergus wasn’t such a liability – how had he put it? Not just high demand, but wanted now too? – he’d consider proposing a joint venture, should the business with the Carnation go well, see how they could do bringing that Highland water down south.

For now, though, he simply drinks, and finds he’s quite enjoying himself until the door swings open and Arthur sits down rather heavily across from him, holding his own large drink.

“Evening, Arthur,” he says with a nod.

“I don’t feel right about it,” comes the rather gruff reply. Clearly Michael has made good on his rather poor attempt at a threat. “Us associating with that sort of people, we’ll be a laughing stock.”

“We’ve been laughed at before and you’ve scared them silent easy enough,” Tommy points out, not unreasonably. “I’ve spoken to the man and he seems professional enough, and besides, he knows powerful men. If we can get into his good books, and put a little of his money into ours, then we could go a long way.”

Arthur takes a slow breath and an equally slow drink. After a moment’s consideration he takes off his hat and coat, and leans forward on the table.

“I don’t agree with it,” he says. Tommy shrugs.

“Nobody’s making you agree with it. All any of us are being asked to do is take their money. Your hands are as unclean as mine.”

“I would never-”

“Not like that, Arthur,” says Tommy dismissively, waving away his brother’s building, blustering anger. “But I’d hardly say we’re above a few sins of our own. As long as we keep things professional, what difference does it make what the man does in private?”

“I suppose.”

Anger pushed aside for now, Arthur leans back and looks around the booth, sniffing.

“His books add up,” he adds, after some thought. “Michael gave me the numbers, and several opinions besides. The offers he’s made are equal our bottom line, and he’s willing to pay more, in some cases. I’d say we take the deal.”

“Good man.”

Tommy drains his drink and begins to stand, readying himself to leave, but Arthur puts out a hand to stop him.

“People are going to talk about it, Tommy,” he says gravely. “There are going to be rumours. What’s this going to do to our reputation? To the Peaky Blinders? To the family?”

A moment’s amusement pulls Tommy’s mouth into a smile, and he claps his brother on the shoulder.

“Come on now, Arthur. Don’t tell me you’ve started caring what people say. You know what to do if anybody laughs.”

“I do that,” admits Arthur with a small laugh. “Alright. I’ll tell the boy to shut up and get John to schedule in a delivery.”

“And if John has the same concerns?”

“I’ll tell him what you told me.”

“Thank you.”

Tommy makes for the door again, straightening his cap by the reflection in the glass.

“Are you coming?”

Arthur sniffs, shakes his head.

“I’ll stay and finish this, if it’s all the same. Could do with the weight off my feet.”

“Alright. Have a word with Michael as well, will you? I think he needs reminding when to keep his smart mouth under control.”

Outside the pub, Tommy closes his eyes for a moment and feels the evening air on his face. It’s cool and a little sharp against his skin, and he focuses on that, lets it draw some clarity to his mind. The first shipment should take place in a week or so, if he remembers his diary right. He’ll contact Fergus in the morning. The prejudices of his brothers aren’t too much of a concern, as he knows they’re easily threatened into obedience and besides, all of them will be less inclined to care where the money comes from once it starts properly coming in. And Fergus is a reasonable man, a professional man, no matter how he might have an uneasy habit of looking at Tommy in a way that felt as though he was being sized up, assessed, and never really ‘looked at’ at all.

He sighs in a cloud of smoke, and heads for home.


	4. Chapter 4

Michael never seems able to keep his voice down, now he’s realized the power that comes with the Shelby family name. It’s starting to become irritating. Hoping he’d grow out of it once the excitement wore off, Tommy’s been keeping a close eye on him, but today doesn’t seem to be the day – the sound of him talking, swinging orders at men twice his age, is all Tommy can hear. Not that he’ll ever tell Polly, of course, but he’s taken up a private hope that someone will knock some sense into the boy.

It’s difficult enough to set it aside when Michael is taking out that petulant attitude on the rest of the family, blood and bond both, which Tommy plans on dealing sternly with in private at the nearest opportunity; he bristles, but lets it go, when he hears the boy snapping orders at some of Tommy’s best men at the docks, knowing he should be able to set things right with a few pounds extra, perhaps permission to miscount the shipment just this once, and a promise that it won’t happen again.

Through the open window drifts another barked order, a boy trying to talk like a man, but this one does get Tommy’s attention.

“Oi there. Donnelly.”

“Are you talking to me?”

That was Fergus. _Damn._ Stupid kid was too new to be doing this, he’d told Polly this time and again but she’d insisted, oh she had to go and insist, and it was never worth the trouble of disobeying when Aunt Pol got insistent.

“Who else?”

“Well, presumably it could have been someone named Donnelly. My name’s Donovan, by the way. Fergus Donovan. I assume you must be Michael?”

In that moment Tommy finds he’s glad he claimed the office, because it’s more effort than it should be not to laugh. Maybe Fergus will be the one to help solve this problem. And oh, Michael may be stupid, but he’s clearly got Shelby stupidity in him because he refuses to back down.

“Are you still a faggot in Scotland? Or do you have your own words for it up there?”

Tommy looks out of the window, peering through a small crack in the frosted glass. He should intervene. He really should, he knows, but there’s no crime in standing by and even if there was, he isn’t exactly shy about crime. Fergus’s stance is instantly familiar; on the far side of the wharf he spots a sharp warning glance flicker across Arthur’s face. Yeah, Arthur would know better than anyone – Fergus is standing like a man ten seconds from throwing a punch, and small though he may be, Tommy suspects the man could land a decent blow if provoked.

“Faggot works, I suppose,” he tells Michael in a dangerously calm voice. More dangerous still, he’s still smiling. “Sodomite, queer, queen. Arse-bandit, if you’re feeling poetic, or homosexual for the posh. Why? Are you planning a holiday, want to know who to ask for?”

This time it’s Michael who bristles threateningly, and Tommy does put his pen down, now, and lifts his jacket and hat because if one of his men starts it, it’s on him to end it. For a few moments the conversation grows faint, shielded by thick stone walls rather than having easy access through an open window. When he rounds the corner and slows down again Tommy lets out a breath of relief that nobody’s bleeding yet. Fergus has acquired a barrel to lean against.

“I know why you’re here,” states Michael, venom lacing his words. It doesn’t land; Fergus is lighting a cigarette, turned away, passive and non-threatening at a glance but Tommy has seen enough fights to recognize coiled aggression. He meets Arthur’s gaze and nods. Just in case.

“Aye. To get this barge loaded, and some papers signed, same as you.”

Fergus is offering him an out, but Michael stubbornly refuses to take it.

"Don’t play stupid. It’s my cousin. You're infatuated by him."

"Please. He's not even pretty."

Arthur laughs, a rasping sound he quickly turns into a cough, and grins at Tommy. For his part, Tommy can’t decide whether or not to be offended. Fergus had said it so dismissively it was like the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. Is that more or less comforting than if it had?

"He don't have to be. It's that charisma he's got.” Michael leans forward, smirking, trying to catch Fergus’s eye. “Gets under your skin, don't it? Everyone says. Can’t see him going for a bent bastard like you though."

A breath in, a breath out. A long drag of a cigarette. And, with remarkable restraint, no response. Michael snaps, raising his voice to a shout dripping with contempt.

"He's not gonna fuck you! Tommy isn't one of you lot."

"I didn't say that he was," says Fergus coolly.

"All I'm saying is that if you lay a finger on him, you won't see that finger again."

Slowly, like he has all the time in the world, Fergus rises and steps forward, squaring up until he stands chest to chest with Michael. For a moment Tommy truly believes the mad bastard is about to try and kiss him, but Fergus simply smiles and responds slowly, voice dropped low in a parody of seduction.

"I don't lay fingers on those who don't ask, Michael. But, if you ask me nicely, I’ll happily… lay them on you."

There it is. They’re on Michael in a second, Tommy grabbing one arm and Arthur the other almost before his first swing has finished making contact.

“Step back, Michael,” grunts Tommy, shoving him hard. Michael keeps pushing forward, a string of expletives pouring from his mouth, and Arthur yells “He said back.”

Working as one the brothers throw Michael down into his seat. Tommy’s heart is pounding in his chest and he becomes slowly aware that the workers are staring. He sweeps one arm in a vague dismissive motion.

“Back to work, all of you,” he says quietly, then “I said back to work! Move along! And as for you-” Tommy levels a finger at Michael, who is flushed and shaking with rage, “I’ll deal with you later. For now, Arthur, get him out of my sight.”

“Tommy,” Michael protests, but he’s having none of it. Not now. This should be routine, and behaviour like that is unacceptable in almost any circumstances. Even as he does it Tommy knows he’ll take hell from Polly come evening, but god is it satisfying to feel his fist connect with the boy’s jaw.

“You do not argue with me,” he growls. “You do not start fights with our business partners. You do not let your prejudices supersede my instructions. And now, you get out of my fucking sight.”

“Polly-”

“What, you’re going running to your mother?”

Flecks of spit fly from Tommy’s mouth, and it takes a conscious effort to reel himself back in. Breathe, slowly. There now.

“Go home, Michael. Arthur, take him. Tell Polly what he did. If he grows up well I could use that kind of mind but if he can’t, I’ll have no place for him.”

Trembling slightly with the effort of not swinging again, Tommy turns away from Arthur and the scowling, bloodied Michael. In all of the commotion Fergus hadn’t moved, had barely even flinched at the punch. Blood drips from his nose but his expression doesn’t change beneath his cold, hard eyes. The iron is there now. Tommy pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and holds it out.

“He’s young.”

“He’s stupid. And lucky you got there before I did. A man only has so much self control.”

Seeming to shake himself free of whatever thoughts are piling up behind his eyes, Fergus accepts the handkerchief and mops up the worst of the blood.

“I hope you’ll understand, Tommy, that I’m going to go on a walk now. Join me or don’t, it’s really all the same to me, but when I return I’d better see a good full shipment loaded.”

“Of course.”

“Good. And you’ll forget a crate, of course, as an apology for this little show? I’m sure Francis here would understand.”

He gestures towards Francis, one of the more experienced workers, who tips his hat briefly before continuing about his business. Tommy inclines his head by way of acknowledgement.

“Understood.”

Fergus nods slowly and turns to stroll down through the docks. Tommy glares at the workers milling around.

“Well? You heard the man. See to it.”

And then, with nothing else to do, he follows Fergus.

He isn’t hurrying, but Tommy’s feet strike the ground hard and swiftly. Though he probably wouldn’t admit it, he needs the impacts to work through the anger that’s still bubbling through him. Oh, it’s a family business, but that’s the Shelby family business, not the fucking Grays. Some days he regrets even finding the boy. But it makes Polly happy. Oh, yes, it makes Polly happy, and no matter how he could hate her Tommy knows he loves her.

Maybe it would have been better if they’d raised him.

No. That way madness lies. Tommy heaves in a breath and forces it all down and away. Just keep walking.

By the time he catches up to Fergus, he’s almost calm again.

Very few spots in Birmingham smell of air which could reasonably be called clean, but Fergus seems to have found one, with a stiff breeze blowing and gulls whirling and screeching overhead. The Scotsman is leaning over a railing, looking out across the water with the body language of a man lounging and the facial expression of one plotting. The glare vanishes like steam against glass as he sees Tommy approach.

“Nice of you to join me.”

“My pleasure to be invited. I wanted to ask you something.”

Laughing, Fergus gives Tommy a sort of once-over.

“Straight to the point, eh? Very forward. I must admit I do like that in a man. Go ahead.”

Tommy leans against the same railing, though he faces back inwards towards the docks rather than out to the water.

"I spoke to a few friends who might have heard your name.”

Out of the corner of one eye he watches closely for Fergus’s reaction, but nothing happens. Not for the first time Tommy is struck by how good he is at appearing inscrutable.

“Anything interesting?”

His tone is so casual, as though they’re simply sharing a drink at a bar. Fergus seems to have a habit of treating everyone as though they are already friends, but that doesn’t mean he’s open with them. Was any of it interesting? For a given value of interest, certainly; but Tommy just shrugs.

“A little surprising. They tell me you're a good man. Never fired a gun, they say."

There’s an unspoken addendum; _Never been a soldier_. It could almost be an accusation in the mouth of a lesser man. Tommy prefers to just let it hang in the air, where Fergus ignores it.

"They do, aye? And who might they be?"

"The truth is the truth regardless of who tells it."

"Aye, perhaps. But different men tell different truths." For a long moment, there is nothing but the cry of gulls and the distant chatter of dockhands. Fergus seems to be considering the matter with some care, and eventually continues. "I've never fired a gun. That's one truth. Three men have died at my hand. That's another." He turns around then, mirroring Tommy’s posture but not meeting his eyes. "Truths are a slippery thing in my business – our business. They say I'm a dangerous criminal because I provide a safe space for men to be good to each other. Truth really doesn't mean a thing."

There’s a long pause. Tommy is a little bewildered by the speech. Obviously he knows fine well that his own life hardly smells of roses, his hands are hardly clean, but in his eyes honest business and honest crime are and always have been too close to part. Even when it’s all legal, even when it’s under orders, there’s always a victim one way or another. A bullet or a bet, it makes no difference, because get hit wrong by one and god knows where you’ll end up.

Fergus speaks again, pulling him from his reverie. This time, he isn’t shy about making eye contact. Piercing eyes fix upon Tommy’s with brutal, weaponized honesty.

"I don't like guns though. Come in with a gun, you're already halfway to a fight. Knives, yeah. A good knife will serve you well. But I try to be a good man, Tommy, no matter who I might’ve had to hurt on the way."

It’s a good speech. Fixed in place by the steady gaze, Tommy is a little lost for how to reply.

“We could use more good men,” he manages after a moment. It seems to be satisfactory.

Fergus smiles, and turns back to watching the gulls.


	5. Chapter 5

The delivery itself, once loaded, goes off without another hitch. Tommy’s men at the docks work quickly and efficiently, even more so when they know there’s a dram or two in it for them at the end of the day. Those that witnessed the fight with Michael have spent the rest of the working day surreptitiously filling in all the rest, and Tommy hears the sound of occasional fits of laughter, hastily shushed. It’s difficult to blame them, but he knows he’s going to have to tell Polly and Michael about that, too, when he gets home. Honest men are easy enough to come by, particularly if your definition of honest lies along the lines of ‘is selective about who he takes bribes from’, but it’s near as odds impossible to find a cheap laborer who won’t gossip to his workmates. Rumour sets like dry rot, and spreads fast and all too easily unseen until the whole thing comes down around your ears. The family name must be upheld.

Michael’s name isn’t the only one being tossed around in the workmen’s gossip. There’s a bench outside of his makeshift office, half the slats broken but still sturdy enough to sit on. Tommy does exactly that and lights up a cigarette with his eyes closed. It’s been a long day. As he smokes he listens to the talk of Fergus, and of the Green Carnation, and it takes him a while but before long Tommy begins to pick up on the distinctions between the knowing and the uninitiated.

“Who the fuck is this Donovan bloke anyway? Never heard of him or his pub.”

“Trust me, Stevens, you’d know if you’d drunk in the Carnation.”

Some scattered laughter, some confused chuckles. The men who didn’t react seem to know it isn’t a joke they want any part of.

Fergus had returned with Tommy after their little chat to sign off on some documents, but he was quite understandably in no mood to hang around. By now he’s probably halfway back to London.

“Are we done yet?”

With some effort Tommy opens his eyes, squinting against the thin grey light to see Arthur standing in front of him.

“I think we might be. I’ll get the car – go and check with the workers, see the shipment off safe before we go. I’ll see you outside.”

Arthur nods.

“Alright, Tommy. Michael is with John – saw no sense in riding home with him when John can take the second car.”

He seems pleased with his own ingenuity in planning this, so Tommy makes a vague noise of approval, but when his brother’s back is turned it transforms into a sigh. Two cars. How did that happen? It’s all starting to get uncomfortably big, and while he knows that’s what he planned for he has to admit he gets tired sometimes. Maybe when he gets back home he’ll somehow snatch an evening to himself and just relax, sit in a pub as a patron for once rather than a threat. That’d be a change.

Of course, it never pans out that way. It turns out a little more like an utter bollocking from Aunt Polly, and a restless night of shovels chipping away at the wallpaper, and a drink alone in the dark just to round off the edges. For a while he finds himself caught up in memories and thoughts of Grace; then, worse, in fantasies about whether he truly misses her or whether that, too, was simply something to round off the edges. Sleep comes again, after a time, uneasy and ill-fitting.

A few days later Tommy receives a letter from London, written in a hand which is clearly trying very hard not to give in and be simply a scrawl. In substance it’s no different from scores of other letters like it, thanking Tommy politely for doing business. In content, he’s sure he’s never before received something so informal. The short piece ends with an injunction to ‘Join me for a drink some time, darling, or what’s the use in owning a pub? I have a new supplier, you see. I’d love to see if his drinks are up to scratch.’ At the bottom of the sheet are the initials F.D. and a doodle of a many-petalled flower.

A month later, after the second shipment has been sent away, there’s a race Tommy needs to attend. It’s somehow simultaneously surprising and completely natural that Fergus is there too, and Tommy waves him over through a gap in the crowd. Even in so formal a setting Fergus refuses to wear a formal jacket. The redhead appears to be accompanied by a man at least ten years his senior, with grey starting to speckle his dark hair, though despite what the age may suggest Tommy is under no illusions as to who is there on whose arm.

“Thomas, what a wonderful surprise,” says Fergus, in the tone of someone not surprised in the slightest. “Tell me, is this business or pleasure?”

“When it comes to you, Donovan, you know the answer makes no difference.”

Where had that come from? Tommy knows he didn’t flush, but it’s a struggle given the way Fergus beams. It is not, strictly speaking, a happy smile; it seems to say that somehow, without realizing the cards were being dealt, Tommy has just lost a hand.

“I won’t keep you,” he continues as though it was never said. “Just wanted to ask if the service is - what was it? - up to scratch.”

“Couldn’t be better,” Fergus replies with a smile. “Tell me, are you feeling good about the race today?”

“My boy is tipped to win, according to some.”

Fergus raises an eyebrow.

“Do you believe them?”

“Well now,” says Tommy coolly, “That would just be speculation.”

“I see.” Fergus turns back to his companion and nods decisively. “Richard, my dear, I think I might have to go any change my bet. Until we meet again, Tommy.”

“Until we meet again,” echoes Tommy, watching Fergus’s figure until he vanishes into the crowds.

They meet again just over a week later, when Tommy makes a brief detour during a trip to London and makes his way to the Green Carnation before opening hours to review the shipments. It’s a nondescript door on an undesirable street, but once inside it’s a beautiful space. Brick pillars divide up the large floor, ringed with seats and with a central open space in front of a small stage. The bar is a gorgeous piece of stained wood, slightly curved to perfectly fit in one corner of the room. It’s surprisingly airy and well-lit for a glorified basement. Tommy has to admit he’s impressed.

“Classy little den of sin, isn’t it?” says Fergus in greeting, smiling at the look on Tommy’s face. “Like God himself, I made it in my image; ugly bastard outside, but with a beautiful heart. Or is it the other way round?”

It’s true, he’s a little surprised by the classy bar being so easily concealed, but really the feeling of unease running through him is because he’s alone in someone else’s business, and he never makes a habit of behavior like that. His heart rate picks up at the thought of what Fergus could try and do to him, and all without anybody knowing. Down one dark mental alley or two his mouth goes dry. It must be fear. Nothing more dangerous than a little man with something to prove, right?

Yeah. Fear. And so it must be the fear which catches at his breath when Fergus walks over to him and leans against the bar, in his tight-fitting shirt and his smartly tailored suit, always untidy but never scruffy in a way Tommy doesn’t quite understand.

“I don’t have time to stay long, Donovan-”

“It’s Fergus, Tommy, please. Not a single man in this bar calls me Donovan. Mind you, I won’t repeat to you some of the other things they call me…”

He trails off with a wicked smirk. Even more eager to leave now, Tommy presses on.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re finding me satisfactory in upholding our arrangement. I see you’re stocking only what’s ours.”

He underlines his point with a glance up over Fergus’s shoulder at the shelf behind the bar.

“I’m finding you perfectly satisfactory,” replies Fergus in a tone Tommy knows he didn’t intend to imply. “Although it would certainly be a little smoother if deliveries came on Tuesday rather than Thursday.

“I’ll see it done. Is there anything else?”

At that Fergus laughs aloud, the sound echoing a little strangely in the empty basement room.

“It’s my birthday next month,” he tells Tommy. “The only way things could be improved would be if the shipment came with flowers.”

Fergus isn’t the only man Tommy sees in London that day. There are several meetings to be made, several more the next day, a week in all it looks like until he’ll be allowed home. It’s a long day and when Tommy returns to Ada’s that night it only serves to get longer; there are two small packages waiting for him, forwarded on from Birmingham. Pol had said she’d handle the mail until he got back, but these are private. Tommy is grateful then for his associates north of the border and their help in shaking off the unpleasant nagging feeling he’s been carrying all day. When he’d spoken to his associates about working with Fergus, two had replied. The other two, though, have waited until today – and worth the wait, because the things they have sent him are interesting. One mentions a different name Tommy hasn’t heard before, and suggests he ask them a thing or two about Fergus Donovan. The second letter should be nothing, telling him almost the same as what he already knew, but there's something in the postscript which doesn’t sit right with him. He worries at his lip for a moment, staring at the paper with focused intent.

“Bastard,” he mutters eventually, to nobody in particular, and slips the paper into the inside pocket of his jacket. As he strides down the stairs he calls into the hallway. “Ada? I’m going out. Leave a key by the door.”


	6. Chapter 6

He barely needs to look up to find his way. It’s a skill Tommy has never quite been able to explain; walk somewhere once, and his body will remember it forever even if his head falls short. Scared hell out of enough men in the tunnels, the way he always knew his way, but it stuck them right by his side.

And sure enough, there’s the door. Voices spill from inside and for a second Tommy hesitates, fearful, but there’s a job in front of him and it’s a job worth doing. He pushes inside and is stopped by a tall, bearded man with a sailor’s physique.

“Ain’t seen you around here before,” he says. “Sure you’s in the right place?”

“I’m here to speak with Mr Donovan,” replies Tommy evenly, keeping a careful eye on the way the man’s hand hovers by his pocket. “Tell him Thomas Shelby has heard news from up north that might concern him.”

The doorman eyes him suspiciously but doesn’t chase him away just yet – he leans inside the bar and mutters something to a young man carrying a tray of drinks. The man looks at Tommy with an appraising eye before disappearing back inside. A few long, desperate moments stretch out, in which the doorman stares hardly blinking. Tommy shifts his weight and coughs. He’s beginning to reconsider even coming to the Carnation, but just before he could actually move away a silhouette appears in the doorway.

“Tommy?”

Fergus stands there cloaked in warm light, smiling with an air of bemusement, and Tommy becomes aware suddenly of how cold it is outside.

“May I come in?”

“During business hours? Thomas, you know the requirements for our clientele here.”

For a moment he’s caught off guard, but Fergus hardly lasts a second before he laughs and the tension is broken.

“Come on in. We’ll go up to my office. They said something about news from up north?”

He nods, and Fergus walks him inside, round the edges of the room where there aren’t many people, stopping only twice to mutter instructions to a waiter and remove a drink from the table of a man almost too drunk to stand. Fergus picks it up, tosses it back, and replaces the empty glass in a fluid movement around the back of the drunkard’s head. He laughs and winks at Tommy when he sees his surprised expression.

“He’ll believe he drunk it himself,” he says, casual as anything. “And when he next goes up to the bar, my man George will serve him something close enough to water, with just a nip of whiskey for the taste. Our old boy here won’t taste the difference. I pocket the profits, and he lives another day, with perhaps the edge taken off his headache to boot. He’d thank me, if he knew. This way now.”

Tommy follows as he’s led through a door, half-hidden in the shadows and lines of the room, and up a narrow flight of steps. At the top of the stairs sits a locked door.

“Bear with me a moment, dear –” says Fergus as he rifles through his trouser pockets. “Ach, bollocks. That’s the fucking snib. Hold on.”

He pulls out from one pocket, not a ring of keys, but a slim cloth roll which opens to reveal a collection of picks and rakes. Tommy watches with interest as Fergus slips one through the gap aside the door and wiggles it until the catch comes free with a loud click.

“There we go.”

He rolls the picks away with deft hand and smiles at Tommy.

“Don’t be getting any ideas now. I’ve got more locks than that, believe you me. That’s just to keep any wandering drunks out who take my office for the cludgie, aye?”

Fergus pushes open the door and places a hand gently against the small of Tommy’s back, softly guiding.

“After you,” he says quietly, and Tommy walks through as briskly as possible in the cramped space. For a split second he’s pressed up against Fergus almost entirely, and all he can breathe is the smell of whiskey and outdoor air; and then the moment passes, and Tommy is standing in a small but nicely furnished office space. Wide open windows take up most of one wall, the wall opposite the door, and beneath them is a desk and chairs. A cabinet sits near beside it. In the far corner of the room is another door, shut tight. Tommy takes a seat on a chair by the desk and with only a moment’s pause to secure the door again Fergus sits opposite him.

“Whiskey?” he asks. Tommy waves him away. The nervousness from before is beginning to coil in his stomach, hot and sickening, and he can feel the weight of the letter folded in his pocket. “Alright. Then if you could, please, let me know what brings you here.”

Swallowing his hesitation, Tommy leans back and sighs.

“You’re aware that I have associates up in Scotland, yes?”

“Yes.”

He takes a breath, considers how best to phrase it.

“I mentioned to one or two men – good men – that I’m working with you, and that maybe we can between us all get a bit of good Scotch down here on the side. One of them sent me this in return.”

He hands Fergus the letter. Watches intently as those sharp iron eyes rake over the lines, revealing nothing in his expression more than simple acknowledgement. When he finishes he folds the paper away again, neat and smooth, and passes it back to Tommy without looking up.

“Thank you, Tommy,” he says coolly, and then without any noticeable shift in demeanour he turns, pulls a knife from his pocket, draws his arm back, and lets fly. The blade whistles past Tommy’s ear and he tries, oh he tries not to flinch, but every muscle in him tenses. He can feel the wind of it on his cheek. It strikes with a thud into the door, driving a good inch deep. Twisting in his seat, Tommy can see that it’s at eye level for a man.

Fergus sits impassive a moment more.

“The man who sent this – where does he live?”

“Out on the islands,” says Tommy. “Ardbeg, I think.”

A nod of consideration while Fergus digests the information.

“When did he send this letter?”

“By the postmark, last week.”

Fergus nods again.

“Alright.”

From a drawer in a desk he produces a pad of paper, notes down a few words and figures, and huffs in what sounds like exasperation. After a while he opens his mouth as though to speak but is cut abruptly short by a knock at the door.

“Fergus?” calls a voice. “I just saw Jamie Sullivan at the bar.”

A cold expression settles on Fergus’s face. He turns over the pad and pushes his chair back with a loud scraping noise.

“My apologies, Tommy, I have to go and deal with this. Please, will you stay? I have a request. Help yourself to a drink.”

Without waiting for a reply Fergus strides across the room, pulling his knife from the back of the door smoothly before heading down into the bar. Tommy watches his retreating figure until the door swings to, at which point he reaches over the table with silent care and swivels the pad to face him. In Fergus’s slightly cramped writing are two names, accompanied by several numbers. The bottom one, the row of figures labelled Thistle/Crow, is circled several times. Tommy makes a mental note of that. Beneath the two sets of numbers is a line reading “Southernmost docks, late - call G & S.” Though he has no idea what that means, Tommy commits it to memory too, with the intent of finding out. Curiosity indulged, though not exactly satisfied, he replaces the paper as he found it and pours himself a drink from the decanter on the table. Seeing as he’s standing up now, Tommy decides, there’s no harm in looking around a little. Certainly Fergus must expect him to.

The view from the windows is unremarkable – the place must look from the outside like just another apartment. Out of habit but with no real expectations Tommy tries the handle of the far door, but it’s locked, and securely, too. The shelves contain a handful of books, a surprising amount of fiction, and some notebooks. Finances, most likely; nothing worth looking through, though, given anything interesting would be left somewhere no idiot could stumble across it. Tommy returns to his seat at the sound of footsteps on the stairs and a moment later Fergus re-enters the room.

“Everything alright?” he asks. Fergus is holding his right hand carefully in his left like he’s injured, but he waves away Tommy’s concern.

“All fine,” he replies, sitting at his desk once more. “Just a spot of bother with an ex-customer.”

“Didn’t pay his tab?”

“No, nothing like that.” Fergus takes a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabs at what Tommy can now make out to be quite a nasty split knuckle. “Naw, Jamie actually kept three tabs with us, all fully paid up. It just so happens that one of those was for a boy barely old enough to be awake at this hour, much less out drinking with men three times his age and then some. We won’t have that, not here. So Mr Sullivan and I had a wee chat, so we did, and I told him that he should haul his hellbound carcass out of my sight and never step a toe on any of my premises again. I also informed him of the information I have on him which could soundly disrupt both his career and his marriage, and reminded him that there are many, many people I know who would take great pleasure in destroying every thread of his life if he so much as looks wrong at a kid again, and they will most assuredly be watching. And Mr Sullivan made no argument, which might have been very polite of him, though I have a sneaking suspicion it might mostly be due to the fact he no longer has half his fucking teeth.”

It’s quite the speech, and for a moment after it finishes the room is silent. Then Fergus blinks and seems to remember where he is.

“My apologies. I hate very few people, but by god, I hate men like him. I won’t have them associated with me or mine.”

He takes a deep breath. After a moment’s consideration he chases it with a deep swig of whiskey.

“Tommy, the person who sent this letter – I’d be much obliged if you could ask him to keep an eye on those men he mentioned, just for a while, and contact you if they seem to be planning to travel.”

“I won’t get mixed up in war I have no stake in.”

It’s firmly, calmly stated. Frankly Tommy is a little taken aback that Fergus would even ask – business arrangements don’t tend to include favours without recompense. But something about the mention of men from Scotland seems to have got Fergus nervous, and when he counters Tommy’s point it’s with a weariness Tommy hasn’t seen in him before.

“I understand. Of course, we are a large company, a large customer of yours… and some men here may take it into their heads to find out who could have helped, and who didn’t, should anything happen to me. But I’ll make no orders against you, nor will I make any threats. There’s only one thing I’ll ask of you.”

“And what’s that?”

With slow, ponderous movement, Fergus looks up and meets Tommy’s eyes.

“Any time you’re in town, Mr Shelby, consider yourself my guest. A drink, an evening, maybe. Because if these men are coming then for all I know, each could be my last. I plan to celebrate with my friends as though that is true.”

Fergus rises and walks to the door, gesturing for Tommy to leave. As he passes, Fergus places a hand on his arm, stopping Tommy in his tracks. His bright eyes, for once, contain neither flint nor steel – they contain vulnerability.

“Thank you, Tommy. Thank you for telling me.”

That vulnerability, the fear, sits with Tommy for the rest of the week, and the journey home too. When the time comes for the next delivery to go up to London, he goes to the docks himself. Uncertain of why, but doing it nonetheless, Tommy packs it himself, too; a small parcel, slipped into the shipment at the last minute. Brown paper. Fresh flowers. By the time they reach London he knows they will be wilted and brown, but he imagines Fergus will smile when he opens them. It’s hard to smile when you know someone is after you. Tommy hopes the gesture will be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of part one.


	7. Interlude

It’s the height of summer, and there’s a cloying heat to the air. It drifts across the land like a disease. The country might not notice it; the gentry certainly don’t, nor the MPs, nor any sort who sits indoors and enjoys the cool air. On the streets there are fights, small groups of two and three and five clashing, slashing, and parting again without warning nor farewell. Muck simmers and turns hard in the sun. The cities begin to stink.

Three men with very little luggage board a train from Inverness. One of them checks his pockets anxiously every few minutes the whole journey to London.

In London, the Green Carnation is doing exceptional business. Those who visit say that the owner is in unusually high spirits, drinking at the bar alongside his patrons every night. Many comment idly on how lucky they are to still have their favourite bar to visit; the heat has taken its toll on improperly stored alcohol in three buildings already, causing fires to catch and barrels to burst. The Carnation has remained untouched.

Three men with hats shadowing their faces meet at the docks in the dead of night. One of them passes another a small envelope, and receives a warm embrace in exchange.

The heat brings ill winds and troubled spirits. Men across the country find themselves waking with nightmares tangled around each limb. It’s a time of anxiety, and of pain. A time of dead men walking dead cities filled with life. Or maybe that’s just how it feels to some of those most certain there’s someone fitting them for a coffin.


	8. Part Two - Fergus.

From across the bar Fergus spots him and grins. For the first time in recent history, Tommy Shelby looks out of his depth. A dark-haired Irishman in a stylish suit has claimed the bar stool beside him, and it only takes a couple steps for Fergus to be able to clearly make out their conversation above the general chatter.

"You here by yourself tonight love?"

Sounds like Rob, though Fergus can't see his face. He's a sweet enough guy, but he's developed a bit of a reputation for not being careful enough. He's the only patron at the bar who keeps two tabs; one for buying drinks, and the other for paying bail. Of course he'd be the first one daft enough to try it on with a Peaky Blinder.

At least Tommy doesn't seem to be offended.

"Meeting someone, actually," he replies. Rob practically pounces on the sliver of information. Small talk might not come naturally to Tommy but it sure does sound good in that voice of his. Fergus would be the first to admit it, had he had anyone to admit it to.

"Well aren't you the lucky one! A handsome man like yourself, it's no surprise. Ah, I can but hope. So, what is it that you do?"

"I, uh, work with horses."

It's not a lie, exactly, but it still prompts a raised eyebrow from Fergus. So Tommy doesn't want people knowing his reputation if they haven't already recognised him. Their conversation about the nature of the truth, way back on the day of that first delivery, floats back through Fergus's mind. Rob, meanwhile, seems delighted.

"Oh! What a charming lifestyle, and us so far from a farm. Do you race them?"

"I mostly own them, but I do like to ride."

The man laughs and runs a hand down Tommy's arm. He tugs at his suit collar and shifts uncomfortably in response. Momentarily overcome, Fergus has to duck behind the pillar to hide the expression on his face. It’s Rob he’s talking to, right enough. Nobody else is that oblivious to warning signs. He wrestles the grin off his face and sticks his head round again in time to hear what’s being said.

"I bet you do, darling, I bet you do. You seem the type. Well after your meeting, if you'd like a ride tonight..."

Rob trails off, leans in close. Looking around in a subtly desperate attempt to find a conversational escape route, Tommy catches Fergus's eye across the room. He prays that he really has managed to hide his amusement.

"I'll be staying at the Palace hotel."

With a wink, and a whirling heel turn which smells of perfume, Tommy finds himself alone once more. Fergus takes advantage of the opportunity to cross the bar and slide into the newly vacant stool, arms outstretched in greeting.

"Alright, Tommy? Don't mind Rob, he's a right numpty at times but he's got a heart of gold in him. What can I do for you? Can I get you a drink?"

Tommy shakes his head, waves away the hovering bartender without so much as a glance.

"I came to check up on business, not be a part of it. As a matter of fact, Donovan, it was you I was looking for."

"Perhaps another time, then. And I've got a first name, you know. We’ve discussed this."

"I know. And I'll use it when I have to."

"So what can I do for you?"

Fergus pulls a carton of cigarettes from his top pocket and lights one, taking a deep drag before offering them to Tommy. He nods and takes one. Words come slowly, with pauses for him to strike the match and light up. Fergus watches closely, his hands, his mouth. Normally he’d be much more guarded, but here? In the Carnation? This is his home, literally as well as figuratively. If he wants to indulge, well, where could be better?

"They tell me that you're thinking of extending your opening hours."

"We all must eat, Tommy. Besides, with your protection we don't have to hide quite so long after the factories close up. You're practically making us respectable."

Tommy smiles, a huff of smoke curling from his nose and mouth. It ties him into the haze of the room.

"Will you be needing more deliveries to accommodate this... respectability?"

There's a pause while Fergus considers. With the tip of one finger he absently traces some numbers along the surface of the bar.

"Two more crates a month. A little bit of everything but mostly the gin. We can re-evaluate after three, in case my numbers are wrong."

Tommy nods.

"I'll see it done." 

Waving over the bartender again, Fergus mutters briefly to him.

“Feele omi – about the delivery, buvare. Two more each month. Think we can manage?”

“Bona, love, just bona,” replies the young man with a grin Fergus returns easily. Cuter men have worked for him, but few of them stay as long as George has. Fergus is beginning to feel genuinely fond of him. A small and worrying part of him is beginning to feel fond of Tommy, too.

Speaking of, Tommy is still sitting like a man out of his depth in the bar. Although, Fergus notes, he’s also looking around like he’s trying to memorise faces.

And then he turns to go, which tugs at Fergus in a way he's not sure he wants to address right now. Wanting a shag with a handsome stranger is all well and good but he’s not going to even touch the territory that comes with caring. One hand on the door handle, one foot outside, already halfway gone...

"Wait," he hears himself say. That piercing blue gaze settles on him once more as Tommy turns.

"It's raining," Fergus tells him, for lack of anything else to say.

"I can see that."

And there it is, that damned voice, low and gravelly and with that accent that Fergus hates to love the sound of. Tommy is looking at him with his hat low over his eyes, and the way he says it is something unique, gently amused and yet with a note of understanding. And oh, but that damn cocky kid was right. It really is starting to get under Fergus’s skin. He swallows hard and grins. It’s his fucking pub. Nobody can touch him, not here. So take the risk. It’s easy to be daft enough when you’re a dead man walking.

"So why leave? You're here, aye- so are you dancin'?"

It's a leap of faith, and Fergus's heart feels about to fly from his chest. Adrenaline is a powerful drug. He wants to chase it. There's a strange look in Tommy's eye; almost like fear.

"I don't dance."

And that's when Fergus lands, solid ground back under his feet. This, this is the part he knows how to do. The grin settles into a cocky smirk, and he steps closer, just pushing the boundaries of respectful, professional space.

"It's business, Tommy. None of the boys will touch you if they see that you're with me. Besides, there's a culture we've come to expect from men like yours, and it tends to end in blood. Seeing you here would go a long way to convince my people that our little deal should continue. There’s been… murmurings."

He drops his voice to match on the last word. Business interest should have been all the argument he needs but Tommy doesn't seem convinced. He shakes his head, gestures with the cigarette to underline his reply.

"I'm a churchgoing man.”

"When you want your Aunt Pol to listen. Now it's me you need to have listen. What kind of man does that make you?"

Fergus takes a step closer, almost chest to chest, and looks Tommy in the eyes. He speaks in a soft voice for only the two of them to hear.

"I'll tell you another thing, you're a military man. This can't be truly foreign to you."

At that, Tommy chuckles, and denies nothing.

“Alright,” he says eventually, equally quiet. “Just one more drink.”

“For you, Tommy, I think the house can stand you a dram or two.”

Fergus holds out an arm and escorts Tommy back inside, through the throng of people until they reach his personal table at the back of the room. At a wave of his hand two double whiskies are placed before them. Tommy takes a long drink and sits for a moment, contemplative, before speaking.

“What do these people get out of it? Coming here?”

“Besides the sex, you mean?” laughs Fergus. “The company, Tommy. It’s all about the company. See, out there, we can face all kinds of evil, wicked shite should people find out about us. But we mean no harm. My friends here, we would never hurt, never take what’s not offered freely, never do any harm more than is necessary in this world of ours. Trust me; if I heard otherwise, there would be hell to pay for the man involved, and I make damn sure everybody knows it.”

He pauses, sips his whiskey, and looks around with a fond smile before continuing.

“That’s the thing, you see. It’s a lonely life. All I want is to give us a safe space to drink and talk and dance without fear, from sundown until morning. Just like the rest of you.”

“You really trust them so much?”

An incredulous note traces the edges of Tommy’s words. Slowly, considering it with care, Fergus nods.

“Aye, I do. These are my men – or, mostly men. Some women. In here, at least.”

Fergus scans the bar, eyes taking in each and every patron and hyperaware that Tommy’s are fixed only on him. He gestures to his chest, above his heart.

“In here.”

The weight of the statement, heavy with implication, drags him down for a moment. Tommy tilts his head ever so slightly as though digesting the information offered to him, but doesn’t speak, and Fergus doesn’t know whether that’s a good or bad reaction so he opts for his usual tactic. The whiskey is smooth and burns beautifully on its way down his throat. With a cough, he stands and extends a hand.

“Now what?” asks Tommy, staring at it warily. Hardly the most original cop-out, and Fergus is having none of it.

“Come on, Tommy, I asked you a question! Here we are, having drinks, in a bar of ill repute and sterling reputation. The band is playing wonderfully tonight. None of the men here now will ever have been here, or even heard of me, come sunrise.”

He can’t read the expression on Tommy’s face.

“It’s business, Thomas, darling. Dance with me.”

And this time, Tommy smiles.

“What kind of dancing?”

Pulling his lower lip into his mouth in consideration, Fergus thinks for a moment, then waves to the band. As he murmurs something to the fiddle player he doesn’t miss the way Tommy looks at him, and it stirs something in the pit of his stomach.

“You’ve told me where you come from,” he grins. “I trust you’re not too grand a man now for a fiddle to stir the fire in your blood.”

A slow smile crosses Tommy’s face.

“I don’t know if I remember all the steps.”

He stands until they’re not quite touching, and for the first time Fergus realizes how near they both are in height. Tommy has perhaps an inch on him, and is broader by far, but Fergus finds it easier than he’d expected to stand eye to eye with him.

“Oh, Tommy,” murmurs Fergus, doing his best to raise his gaze above Tommy’s mouth, distractingly close. “You don’t forget the dancing.”

The fiddle sings a long, quavering note that sets Fergus’s hair on end all down his back. He reaches out, not tentative, but polite, waiting for Tommy to bridge the gap. And bridge the gap he does.

There’s a little fumbling over who is holding who, but the fiddle sings for everyone and a second later they are stood as equal partners. The opening strings travel right through Fergus’s chest.

And then they dance.

It’s fast, and wild, and in a matter of moments Tommy is smiling, embarrassment forgotten. It’s business, yes; but it’s more than that. The dancing calls, and all who know the steps will always answer.

Flushed with exertion, Fergus whoops and encourages the band to play on, transitioning seamlessly from one dance to the next and Tommy, to his surprise, matches him step for step without missing a single beat. He’s smiling properly for the first time Fergus can think of.

The bar must have gotten busier since Fergus last looked, because there’s a distinct heat in the air now. Good. The more people who see this deal made, the better. He’s always believed in public accountability, and damn right his public should be there to see it.

At least, that’s what Fergus tells himself, because in reality there could have been half of Scotland Yard beating on the door and he wouldn’t have noticed until Tommy dropped him. The dance has changed again, see, to a partners dance, and for no reason but to save time they’ve defaulted to the tallest man leading. With every turn they make around the room he can feel his focus narrowing. Tommy’s eyes have remained on him for every second and every step. It’s almost dizzying.

And then Tommy’s mouth is a half-inch from his and through the heat Fergus shivers involuntarily. There’s a rush in the air that he’d have taken for an open door, were there any doors directly into the bar. In truth, Fergus knows it’s probably his imagination, though he fancies for a moment that it’s caused by the collective gasp of two hundred not-so-subtle observers. Without meaning to, Fergus licks his lips. 

The music has stopped. For a long moment, so desperately long, they stay in the centre of the dancefloor. Fergus is breathing heavily and he can’t deny, won’t deny, that he’s staring now. They’re pressed so close together he can feel Tommy’s heartbeat pounding against his chest, just slightly out of time with his own. Tommy's lips part slightly and Fergus is all but screaming at himself to make a move, to do something now while it's all just business and then he can stop fucking thinking about it and move on with his life. But then, it never really works out that way.

“I should go,” says Tommy, not exactly addressing Fergus; not exactly addressing anyone; he speaks as though he is echoing the thoughts of someone not present, someone long past.

“Tommy-”

Fergus finds his voice soft and scratched but Tommy is already standing and pulling away. Before he can recover his wits Tommy is across the room and out of the door, carrying his hat and scarf because stopping to put them on would be too long to remain in the Carnation. Fergus spits on the floor through a dry mouth and strides up to the bar, plastering a smile onto his uncooperative face.

“Double. Whiskey. The hometown stuff.”

George nods and pours what could more reasonably be called a triple than a double. Fergus drinks half of it in one swallow. Grimaces. Drinks the rest.

“Good man.”

“About Shelby –”

“All that needed to happen, was for everyone to see us dance, and leave smiling. I’m smiling. Aren’t I?”

George nods again.

“Yes, sir.”

Groaning, Fergus drops his head into his hands for a moment.

“Sir, always with the sir. Won’t anybody in this godforsaken country use my name?”

“Fergus,” says George softly, polishing a glass with exaggerated care. “All I was going to say was if nobody else would care to dance with you, for whatever reason, my shift ends in half an hour, and sunrise isn’t for four.”

Slowly, Fergus smiles.


	9. Chapter 9

There aren’t many patrons at the Thistle & Crow at this time of day; it’s a working man’s pub, surrounded most sides by industrial buildings, and until that bell at last tolls their freedom at the end of each day there’s scarcely anyone inside drinking. Fergus likes to keep it open anyway. Having the bar staffed but empty has its uses. Gregor manages the bar for him, and he’s always had a better head for numbers than Fergus so he keeps the books – all of the books. Fergus enjoys the ability to promise discretion in all matters and areas of business.

On most days, Fergus would leave the Thistle & Crow to run itself, with little if any public association with him, but today is a special occasion. Not only has Gregor got his first date in months, not only is it a special occasion for the bar itself, it’s also his birthday. Fergus would never forget his big brother’s birthday. As he strolls up the lane towards the pub he adjusts the large parcel tucked up under his arm. Brown paper and string, nothing fancy or flashy, but he finds himself smiling warmly at the thought of Gregor opening it. He’s going to enjoy this. They’ll have time for a drink before opening, maybe two, and a good old-fashioned blether as Fergus walks him to meet his man. That’s rule one – always bring a friend to play lookout, pay bail, or lend a helping fist if things go wrong. Mostly they just encourage a buddy system of sorts at the Carnation, but Fergus figures this time it’s personal. Besides, it’s not like he’s got anything else on.

Truth be told, though Gregor is the only one to whom he’s willing to tell it, Fergus could use some advice about the whole Shelby situation. Mixing work and pleasure is an amateur’s mistake and one he wouldn’t stand for in his subordinates – at least, not unless it was him they turned to for pleasure – so Fergus knows damn well he should hold himself to that same standard. Unfortunately for his conscience, he might have inadvertently found the most attractive crooked businessman in the country to do business with. Unfortunately for several other parts of him, Tommy being crooked doesn’t necessarily mean he’s bent.

Mud shifts under his feet, dark and thick from the factory waste, a sign that he’s drawing close. Given they live in the same city he really doesn’t make enough time for these little visits. He’s excited. God, it’s been a while since he’s been excited. He tries to be, or at least happy; life just seems to be getting in the way more often than not.

“Donovan.”

Oh good, there life is again, in the form of his favourite Brummie bastard with the infuriatingly perfect bone structure. Can’t he catch a break, just once? Come to think of it, how has Tommy even found this place? It’s got almost nothing to do with Fergus and besides, given the hurry Tommy left in after his last visit to London it’s surprising to see him again at all. But there he is, turning up again like a bad penny, lounging there barely twenty yards from the Thistle & Crow, with his cap casting shadow across his face and the perennial wisp of smoke curling up from his cigarette. Fergus could spit in disgust but he figures in this street it would only improve the general cleanliness of the place.

“Shelby. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Tommy visibly bristles at the cold tone but doesn’t take a step closer. Good. Let him squirm, Fergus might be professional when it comes to business but that doesn’t exclude a little personal pettiness should he so feel like it.

“I was in the area.”

“Aye, right, you were.”

He hasn’t broken his stride, hasn’t slowed his pace, Fergus just wants to keep on walking past Tommy and get on with his day before his mood can be soured any further. And right now it’s sour enough he can almost taste it. When he continues speaking he lets it cling to his words.

“Tommy, I’ve got a meeting, I really don’t have time to deal with this right now. If you can’t stomach selling to me any more now you’ve seen me dance, then tell me at a more appropriate time.”

“Just tell me why there are men from Scotland poking around asking questions, then. Hey? Maybe tell me why I’m the last to fucking know about it?”

He raises his head to lock eyes with Fergus and continues.

“Or maybe I’m the first? Maybe I’m here to deliver a warning to my associate before someone blows our whole business apart. Fucking listen to me-”

Tommy moves then, striding forward swiftly to grab Fergus’s arm. He throws it off and he can feel the heat surge inside him, the feeling of standing too close not to do anything and one of those options is always, always to lash out.

“No, you listen!”

Too close, too close by far, Fergus counts to ten in his head just like Gregor always told him to but he’s still looking at Tommy’s mouth like he wants to either kiss it or sink a fist into it. His fingernails tear the wrapping paper on the package he holds. Anger drips from his words, he doesn’t fucking have the time for this.

“These men are after me, alright? Not you. It’s personal. That can happen when you kill a man’s brother and corrupt his sister. It’s my business, and I am handling it. So if you don’t mind, I am going to my brother’s bar. I am going to celebrate my brother’s birthday with him, and then I am going to go for a walk, and then I am going to go home. You are not to meet with me here. You are not to meet with me outside of our scheduled business contexts. I don’t know how in the hell it works in Birmingham, mister Peaky fucking Blinder, but in my part of town I am in charge. So if you want me to talk to you, you go back to the Carnation, you say pretty please to my man on the door, and you let the staff take very good care of you until I get back.”

With the anger still slowly draining from his limbs, it begins to dawn on Fergus that Tommy isn’t reacting like he should. His eyes have gone wide, his jaw slack, he’s stepping away and Fergus feels panic flutter in his chest. That can’t be good.

His limbs are moving before his brain fully catches up.

“Gregor!”

The industrial muck slips and slides under his feet, slowing him down. It feels like one of those nightmares he has where the air turns to treacle around him. He’s running, he doesn’t know why and he’d rather not find out. Get in. Get Gregor. Get away. Get the fuck away, as far and fast as possible, because if Tommy looks that scared at the prospect of Fergus entering that bar then it has to be for a reason. For every three steps forward he slips twice, almost falling. Curses are streaming unintelligibly from his lips, tears of terror blinding him.

Three things hit Fergus at once, as close to simultaneous as makes no difference. An invisible force that wraps painfully around every inch of him; a wave of heat unlike anything he’s felt before; and Tommy Shelby’s shoulder, as the man tackles him hard to the ground. The sum total of it all sends them both tumbling unceremoniously into a pothole filled with stinking mud.

Tommy’s arms are locked round him like a vice, strong and tight enough to be painful, and in the distance there’s a searing heat. It’s bright, too; not just summer evening bright, but something stronger. Fergus’s ears are ringing, his head spinning; it feels like he’s drunk himself to death on violence and whiskey and rum. Blacked out in the soft dirt. Feels like home, in a way, like his sixteenth birthday back out on Islay when Gregor had carried him home and called him his brother for the first time.

Oh, fuck.

The pieces begin to fall into place, scattered and shattered thoughts reassembling. Gregor, home, birthdays-

No.

_No._

Fergus screams without hearing, only aware that he’s making any sound at all by the way it hurts his throat. The arms around him are shaking now, Tommy’s whole body shaking, and Fergus can’t bear it a second longer. Strength he didn’t know he had floods his veins. He throws Tommy off, sending him sprawling curse-choked in the dirt. Standing up on shaking limbs he looks at the bar, Gregor’s bar.

But the bar isn’t there.

The space where the Thistle & Crow once stood is now occupied mostly by fire and rubble. Each shallow, terrified breath Fergus takes tastes like burning alcohol. He calls again for his brother, crying out, and tries to run forward but another wave of flame rolls out from the bar and forces him backwards.

The barrels must have caught light for real, not the way he’d planned but more authentic. Ironic. It tastes bitter, or maybe that’s the blood from his split lip he’s tasting. He spits it out and tries again to enter, pushing aside some rubble, but receives nothing but a burnt hand. Flaming bricks fall down by what was once the doorway.

“Gregor,” he mumbles again, and then something inside of him breaks and he falls to his knees in front of the fire. Fergus tastes salt. He’s sobbing, gasping out his brother’s name like a lost child. He might as well be; life without Gregor-

Fuck. Without Gregor.

A trembling hand lands on his shoulder; Tommy has climbed to his feet and stands behind him. Heaving in a gasp between sobs Fergus smells something that reminds him of burnt meat, cooked over a campfire. Nausea rolls around his stomach. Tommy shifts and makes a sound like he’s about to speak, then moves round to kneel in front of Fergus.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, “I’m so sorry.”

With a further, final, shuddering sob, Fergus vomits on his shoes.


	10. Chapter 10

The grief and rage blur days together like turpentine poured down a painting. Fergus crawls his way through it as best he can. If he’d been asked before he’d have said he’s pretty good at putting on a brave face, but this… this is something he never thought he’d need to see. It had always been an unspoken shared belief that Fergus would go before Gregor ever did. With the rug so utterly whipped from under him, Fergus almost wonders if it had been him who died after all. Certainly feels like losing the heart of him. Every time Fergus manages to leave his rooms, even just to stumble downstairs and steal a bottle for his personal enjoyment, he can feel eyes on him like a physical thing, like insects, making his skin crawl and his toes curl in his boots. He doesn’t know what burns worst, the pity or the judgement or the heat, the heat, the heat of the explosion that no amount of cold water has managed to soothe from him. When it comes down to it, he prefers the burn of strong spirits.

The Donovan brothers, aye? Gregor had always been that to him, one way or another, and it was a matter of nothing at all to make it square and neat and legal. His big brother was always the heart of the family. Now these days Fergus could only feel his pulse when it surged in anger.

The kid who was supposed to set the spark, some new kid, George had brought him in one day and he’d been oh so desperate to please Fergus, so eager. A pretty face two weeks shy of twenty-one. Fergus had promised him ten pounds and a round on the house for nothing more than a couple of strategically dropped matches. And oh, alright, maybe he’d added a wink or a smile here and there. A hand on his hip, even, discreet and proper but lingering, intentional, nonetheless. Nothing with the intent to hurt him or even lead him on, just… imply a possibility for the boy, some day in the future. Offer a friendship now.

Not so much a pretty face any more though.

Fergus hadn’t planned it so much as he’d let the world pull the plan into place around him. A little stress relief, that was all Fergus had had in mind when he forced himself from his home that day. And wherever there were men who had nothing with which to occupy their time, there would be someone somewhere providing that stress relief.

He knew the signs well enough. Not to mention he knew well enough which men would show him the way. In the end it took him barely half an afternoon to find the boxing ring, set up in a disused warehouse. These things crop up all over, never lasting more than a few weeks before they get moved on. Whoever finds space to put one up usually ends up making a pretty tidy little profit off the thing, taking some bets under the table here and there.

Nobody on earth could claim it’s Fergus’s doing when all he’s doing is sitting on a bench, unbuttoning his shirt before he steps into the ring. Not his fault at all that the first free opponent in the ring is that very same kid.

And now he’s breathing deep and heavy, dragging a body that doesn’t feel like his own into an approximation of good fighting form. His shirt and jacket are hanging on a hook, high up in one corner of the ring. In the opposite corner, the kid is dancing, on his toes, like he’s doing a warm up. Not bad, either; he’s clearly practiced, not necessarily a fighter but the kind of guy who uses words like ‘form’ and ‘Queensberry’ and who shadow-boxes in front of his mirror. A decent opponent, in a fair fight.

Trouble is, Fergus isn’t in the mood to fight fair.

His first blow almost knocks the boy off his feet, a wild aggressive thing aimed at the jaw. Oh, yes, it’s sloppy, but that doesn’t make it any less satisfying. Fergus can see the shift in the kid’s eyes and his stance as he recalculates how this is going to go. Maybe there is a fighter in there after all. Not bad.

The boy’s technique is good as he lands a few blows to Fergus’s chest and stomach, pushing him backwards, though he manages to duck in time to avoid the retaliatory swing towards his face. Each impact sends pain shocking through him. Good, physical pain. It’s oddly comforting. Fergus has spent fuck only knows how many days feeling nothing but a hollow space within his chest. Good, sharp pain brings him back to life. No matter if it’s a heartbeat or a punch, there’s still a fist-sized pounding in his chest.

Fergus redoubles his efforts, letting the fight draw him in. It takes him too long to realise he’s losing himself again.

They’re on the floor. How did they get on the floor?

He’s bleeding, from his hands and from his nose. The kid is lying beneath him. Gregor’s face fills Fergus’s vision as he punches down, again and again, feeling the kid’s nose break, blood surge over his fingers, and still Fergus keeps sending blows thudding into his face and torso.

Through the blood rushing in his ears, Fergus hears a choked-off cry of agony.

All at once his vision and mind clears, and Fergus stands, stumbling as far away as he can get.

“Fuck. Fuck!”

Remorse slithers up to wrap thick and heavy around his wrists as Fergus swipes a hand across his face and walks back over towards the kid. Poor boy is coughing up blood. Fergus kneels before him.

“Hey. I’m sorry, I- here.”

He reaches out a hand to help the boy sit up. The kid looks wary, but accepts.

“I don’t know what just… shite, mate. Here. C’mere.”

The kid sits more surely, leans forward slightly. With a hollow, rueful smile, Fergus reaches out and wipes the blood away from his nose and cheek, keeping his touch as gentle as he can.

“Are you alright?”

It’s a redundant question, and the kid laughs shallowly in response.

“I’ll heal,” he replies, in his rough Cockney accent. “Just glad you thought to stop.”

“So am I.”

A beat passes. Fergus sighs and stands, helping the boy upright with him.

“Listen – come round to the Carnation some time soon, aye? Any time. You know our George, if I’m not there he’ll stand you a drink. If I’m in, just ask for me, and I will.”

Standing face to face, it’s even more evident to Fergus now that he’s just a kid. He turns, stumbles, and fumbles awkwardly at his jacket pocket for his wallet. With shaking hands, barely noticing how his jacket falls to the floor, he presses some coins into the boy’s hand. Guilt and anger are pulsing through him.

“Here. Buy yourself something nice, buy a drink-”

And as Fergus speaks he spins round, arms raised wide and open, and raises his voice to address the whole room and echo up to startle the pigeons in the rafters.

“And another for the first man to land a punch on me!”

A general hubbub rises in the room as men look to each other for guidance. A drink is a drink, and there’s no room in a place like this for any man who can’t throw a punch hard enough to break a bone. That much is sense enough. But the men have sense enough too to be wary of a challenge, especially for a man covered in another’s blood. Fergus wouldn’t take a bet from a man like himself, not now. The burning in his blood, the burning so hot it hurts, is a burning for death. For pain. For kill or be fucking killed, both if you’re lucky. If nobody takes his bet then he’ll take them, as many as won’t get out of his way, for all he cares he’ll fight the world and it still won’t bring Gregor home but by god it can’t hurt any worse.

“Come on, you bunch of sniveling shiteing cunts!” he roars, so loud it hurts his throat. A few of the men bristle at that. A few more back away.

Somewhere behind him, someone coughs.

Fergus turns, arms coming up in readiness and a grin making its way across his face. It almost fully makes it, too, before a fist flies and wipes it clean away. Hatred and adrenaline pulse like a heartbeat. When his vision clears Fergus finds himself standing opposite Arthur Shelby. Of fucking course it is. Anywhere there’s a fight, Arthur will find it, if his reputation is anything to go by. Seems he can’t get away, sometimes, from the fucking Shelby brothers, away to cry in peace. Arthur is grinning too.

“I’ll take that drink, bent boy,” he snarls, and lets fly again. Fergus hardly even has the time to flinch before Arthur’s punch strikes him with a crunching sound and a hot, sharp pain that shudders and settles itself into a deeper thud, the kind of hurt which gnaws at the bone and Fergus knows he’ll be feeling it for a week. Yeah. An eye swollen shut too, most likely, and a split lip that’s flooding his mouth with fresh blood. It’s partnered with a blow to his stomach that half knocks the wind out of him. Bruise there too, most likely; it’s been an anxious, hungry life, no matter how many businesses he runs, and no amount of money buys the time or willpower to eat more than necessary. With the punch raising a moment’s nausea, Fergus doubts he’ll be eating much for a little while now.

Fergus laughs, reckless and wild. It echoes like insanity off of the bare warehouse walls.

“That’s more fucking like it.”

Droplets of blood fly like spit from his mouth. Where they hit the ground, they leave small craters in the dust. Arthur is grinning his own half-mad grin. They call it punch-drunk for a reason.

With another laugh, this time low and harsh in the back of his throat, Fergus pulls Arthur close by his sweat-damp hair and kisses him with a passion formed of fury. It’s hard. Harsh, uncaring and unthinking. The rational part of Fergus’s mind notes that Arthur’s moustache is scratching at his lip. And when Fergus had thought about shagging a Shelby, this wasn’t how he’d thought it would go, which is funny, somehow, in the moment.

All it is, is a moment.

When Fergus releases his grip Arthur has blood on his mouth too. He looks furious, and if he wasn’t also so visibly taken aback Fergus would have probably been punched again already. Holding eye contact without blinking or flinching, Fergus smiles, and nods. For a beat, nothing shifts; and then Arthur’s eyes spark in a kind of recognition. The tension sags away and Fergus knows, then, that Arthur sees the respect in that kiss, and finds a little respect in return. The corner of his mouth turns up in a smile beneath his moustache.

“Alright,” he says, sounding half like he’s talking to himself. “Alright, Mr Donovan.”

He holds out a hand, bloody and scarred. Fergus shakes it.

“Fergus.”

“Fergus. Alright. No more acting like a daft bastard, eh? The kid walked away, so you will, too.”

“I understand. Arthur –”

The sentence doesn’t seem to have an end. Anything Fergus tries to say gets caught in his throat, strangled by something he has no name for. Tears are threatening to well up behind his eyes, so he hides it as best he can with a cough and hastily turns away to pick his shirt and jacket back up from the floor where they’d fallen. Swallowing hard does next to nothing to dislodge the lump in his throat. Fergus shakes his head in a vain attempt to clear it and walks towards the door, one hand fumbling through his jacket pockets for something. After a moment he finds it, smooth and cool against the pain-reddened heat of his skin. With it, he finds his voice again. 

“Give your brother my regards,” he says, as loud and clear as he can manage. The crowd of men who had been enjoying the spectacle he put on now part before Fergus, moving away from his path as though being compelled by the force of his anger. With deft and fluid hand he flips the coin up, high into the air end over end. It lands in the dirt with a soft, deafening thump.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The overall rating for the fic is gonna stay as M, but there's a bit of an E rating towards the second half of this chapter - nothing vital to the plot and absolutely skippable if you don't want to read that sort of thing. Always check the tags, I'll be updating those as I go

_The kid is dancing, on his toes, like he’s doing a warm up. Not bad, either; he’s clearly practiced, not necessarily a fighter but the kind of guy who uses words like ‘form’ and ‘Queensberry’ and who shadow-boxes in front of his mirror. A decent opponent, in a fair fight._

_Trouble is, Fergus isn’t in the mood to fight fair._

_The dirt floor shifts slightly beneath his feet with every movement, every change in his stance moving the sandy soil around him. His feet sketch out a strange, rough pattern beneath him. Brass knuckles weigh down his fists, a comfort in a strange way, almost as though someone is holding his hands._

_He swings at the kid, punch wild and sloppy in its aggression, but it does the job. The weapons around his fingers should mean Fergus feels it less, but somehow the impact reverberates up his arm instead. A soft shudder that dissipates as it runs through his body. The kid’s head snaps back with an echoing cracking sound made by the impact. Fergus expects him to come up from it bloody and filled with piss and vinegar, ready for a good old-fashioned scrap or maybe a desperate plea for Fergus to go easier. Neither outcome is true. Instead, the man who looks back up at him is Arthur Shelby, and he’s laughing._

_“Right then,” he growls, and launches himself at Fergus._

_Before he can get rid of Arthur, Fergus feels his nose break and the wind leave his lungs. The man’s a fighter and a damn good one at that – ruthless, uncaring about anything save the howling call of the beast inside. For a moment Fergus thinks he might lose, but then he manages, with a lucky shot, to knock Arthur’s feet enough that he stumbles and then follow it up with two sharp jabs to his ribs._

_Fergus blinks a few times in rapid succession. Something isn’t right here, something doesn’t make sense, but he hasn’t the time to think about it because there’s a smirking bastard of a police officer standing in front of him twirling a truncheon._

_“Bet you know what’s gonna happen next, eh?” says the man. “Fucking bastard. It’s disgusting, what you do.”_

_“Take your fucking truncheon and shove it,” snarls Fergus. The policeman laughs._

_“Oh, I’m gonna shove it, all right.”_

_He swings, but Fergus is used to this. People think that fighting with a weapon gives you an advantage. Common misconception. Fighting with a weapon only makes you clumsy, unless you know how to use it._

_Fergus ducks under his arm as he swings, comes up good and close, with his back against the policeman’s chest for extra leverage. One hand on the arm, just below the elbow, the other on the hand holding the truncheon, and a knee striking hard in between. Lose the weapon, lose the arm, or both._

_This isn’t a boxing match any more. Hell, it’s barely above a bar brawl._

_The policeman’s arm snaps with a sickening noise, and he screams in Fergus’s ear loud enough that it starts ringing. He won’t be throwing any more punches with that arm. As a bonus, Fergus now has his truncheon. He spins and lashes out at the same time, sending the man sprawling in the bloodstained dirt. There’s a rhythm building up now, and Fergus finds himself grinning despite himself. He adjusts his grip so the truncheon is less a weapon and more just a way of making his fist more solid._

_“Alright then, ya bastards,” he mutters. “Keep ‘em coming.”_

_He doesn’t even recognize them now. Some of the faces look almost familiar, but Fergus is more preoccupied with the way they’re throwing punches. Dodges one, kneecaps him followed by a blow to the face, then nuts the next one before he’s even had the time to get up. Four, five, he’s not sure how many he’s fought but he’s getting into the swing of it. There’s a pattern of sorts to a fight like this, chaotic and hectic but fun, he doesn’t want to admit it but it really is fun sometimes. God, he wishes he had a knife._

_And then suddenly he’s face to face with a corpse. Gregor stands there swaying, holes burnt through his clothes. Mottled red and black flesh, charred and burnt, shows through from underneath. Fergus feels his head spin. Instinct kicks in hard and forces him stumbling backwards._

_“No,” he whispers. Gregor smiles gently._

_“My wee baby brother,” he replies. “Don’t be daft. Alright, wee man? Don’t be daft.”_

_“I love you,” Fergus hears himself say. Tears are filling his vision, everything in sight starting to swim in grief._

_“Sappy cunt,” laughs Gregor, and steps forward to hug him. With a shaking breath, Fergus leans into the embrace, feeling his brother’s arms around him even as the smell of burning chokes his throat._

_The arms tighten. Fergus opens his eyes to find Gregor vanished from sight. The warm embrace is now nothing more than harsh ropes tied around him, stopping him from moving. He screams, and the shadows around him form into shapes. Silhouettes. Moving as one, they draw weapons – knives, clubs, knuckledusters – and attack. Helpless to do anything but scream again and again, Fergus feels the blows rain down upon him, but something is wrong here too. It should hurt. It should be agony, possibly mortal. Instead all he feels are shockwaves, not painful, simply the knowledge of an impact and the feeling of something pulsing through his whole body, spreading from the point of contact._

_Someone slashes through the ropes and Fergus hauls himself free. Maybe he’s outnumbered five to one but he’s sure as hell not going to make it easy for them. Doing a decent enough job too, until something else catches his attention._

_In the distance, someone laughs._

_Fergus looks around wildly and sees her, standing ringside, perfect and untouched. Long curly hair pinned carefully in place. Dress so white it almost glows. She shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be fucking anywhere, certainly not here in this room of sweat and dirt and blood._

_“You’re deid,” Fergus says, a plea at first and then a scream in the voice he fears he’s started to lose since leaving home. “Yer fuckin deid!”_

_She laughs again, and in that moment of distraction Fergus doesn’t have time to dodge the cudgel swinging at his chest. He stumbles back into a tangle of feet and legs and then he’s falling backwards. Fergus screws his eyes shut and braces to hit the ground._

_The impact never comes._

_When Fergus opens his eyes again he’s surrounded by darkness, tumbling backwards, turning over and over like the somersaults he used to do to impress his friends except this time his feet never hit the ground. He’s going to fall forever until he ends up right where he’s always belonged._

_Fergus can’t breathe._

_Is this what dying feels like? Hurts less than he’s expected it to. The only discomfort is the swooping in his stomach and the feeling of something constricting around his neck._

_He’s not falling any more._

_Something, someone, has got him by the collar and is lifting him up out of the darkness. Fergus feels weightless for a few moments more and then blinding light fills his vision and dazzles him. Instinctively Fergus brings up a hand to shield his face but it’s slammed back into something solid. A split second later, so is his back. When his sight clears Fergus finds himself in a familiar basement room, staring into the piercing blue eyes of Thomas Shelby._

_Tommy has him pinned against the brick wall with a hand just shy of choking him. He looks almost hungry. Looks like he’s ready to kill. Fear shoots cold and sharp down his spine, and Fergus shivers._

_“Tommy,” he manages to choke out. Tommy grins._

_“Donovan.”_

_Maybe this is where he really finds out what dying feels like, thinks Fergus, gaze fixed on Tommy’s eyes. There’s a fire reflecting back at him there. He closes his eyes to shield himself from it._

_For a long moment all he knows is the sound of his own labored breathing, and then the world feels like it drops away again except this time the ground stays solid beneath his feet. Tommy is kissing him._

_He opens his eyes again and Tommy is still kissing him, still Tommy, not shifting into anyone else this time. Fergus kisses back hard._

 _It isn’t a fight, but it has the tempo of one._

_Fingernails scrabble at Fergus’s back through the thin material of his shirt. His own hands are busy, having knocked Tommy’s hat aside and stripped him of his coat. No more Peaky fucking Blinder. He’s a man, a man like any other Fergus has had like this. Tommy._

_“Tommy,” he murmurs into the other man’s mouth, his words mirroring his thoughts and the beat of his heart, the rush of his blood, and right now it’s all rushing in a very particular direction. Fergus shudders and lets out a low noise as Tommy gropes at him._

_“Fuck you,” he mutters, half laughing._

_“I plan on it,” replies Tommy. Fergus shudders and pulls him in closer, one hand undoing the buttons of Tommy’s shirt. When his hand first brushes against bare, heated skin, Tommy gasps._

_They’re tangled together, stealing every possible point of contact, and it’s not enough. Fergus shoves Tommy hard, backwards and down, and he falls obediently to his knees. Laughter flies wild from Fergus’s throat, choked off all of a sudden when he feels Tommy reach for the front of his trousers and pull them down. He tangles his fingers in Tommy’s hair and grips hard enough to make Tommy moan. The heat between them is building enough that Fergus can feel sweat start to form on his neck. For a moment he feels dizzy. Then he feels Tommy’s mouth on him, and it’s the only thing he can feel in the world._

_The basement’s thick walls are a blessing; they muffle the sound Fergus makes at the way Tommy takes him in his mouth like he’s had one hell of a lot of practice. Fucking army boys, he thinks with a gasped-out laugh. They’re like nobody else._

_A bead of sweat drips from his forehead. He’s searing hot with exertion and arousal. With his free hand – the one that isn’t guiding Tommy, holding his head as Fergus fucks his pretty little mouth – he wipes the sweat away and takes a deep breath of hot, dry air._

_Tommy moans softly, sending a hot flush rushing through Fergus and vibrations around him right where he’s most sensitive. He gasps helplessly._

_Looking down, Fergus feels his knees go weak at the sight of Tommy kneeling there. Head between Fergus’s legs, where his tongue works away – as skilled and swift in this as it is in any negotiations he’s ever made – and one hand down the front of his own trousers, stroking slowly and deliberately. Fergus can’t see more than that, but he doesn’t need to. It’s enough._

_He curses under his breath. Something hot is coiling within him, almost as hot as the air feels on his skin, and he knows he’s close._

_“Fuck’s sake, Tommy,” he groans, adjusting the hand in Tommy’s hair. The man’s mouth still feels like bliss, but the heat in the room is beginning to grow painful. Fergus forces his eyes to open._

_Tommy is gone._

_The first response to this realization is frustration – so close, why did it have to change again now of all times? – but that doesn’t last long, quickly being replaced by another, more pressing realization. Smoke is billowing in from under the door. In that moment, Fergus realizes why the room looks familiar; this is the passage into the cellar of the Thistle & Crow._

_“No,” he mutters, hands scrabbling to pull his trousers back up. He needs to leave, and leave now, but a cold creeping certainty tells him he already knows how this ends. Flames are licking at the edges of the door too, and Fergus screams for nobody to hear in the split second before the explosion hits._

~*~

The night air is cold, blessedly cold as Fergus sits bolt upright and heaves in a breath. The quick movement makes the patchwork of injuries across his torso protest but he doesn’t have it in him to care.

Fergus is alive, and Gregor is gone. Everything remains the same as it was, and as it shouldn’t be. And as for the aching, frustrating arousal sitting between his legs, Fergus refuses to even spare it a thought. He calms his breath further and stands. Shrugs on a loose shirt and some worn out trousers to hide the marks from himself.

Fuck the hour on the alarm clock. He needs a drink.


	12. Chapter 12

This hour of the morning, thinks Fergus, could best be described as repulsive. Still, it's better to be awake here than be awake in bed. Better to drink and plan for morning than stay huddled in blankets and wracked by shivers and screams. Something’s been bugging him, too, and he doesn’t know what.

A drink. For Gregor. _In Memoriam_ , and all that, dust to dust. That’ll clear his head, or cloud it enough he won’t have to think about anything for a while.

He pours himself a pint of his best cider, and sighs heavily. The bar feels too large when it’s empty. Fergus would go back upstairs but, well, he knows where the drink is kept and he knows where the nightmares are. Best to keep those separate. He’s tired enough that it aches in his bones, but sleep is beyond him. Luckily, it’s not his first brush with insomnia. He can run on empty for a little while longer. 

Someone knocks at the door. That’s not entirely unusual – it’s usually either some drunk looking for a place to piss, or one of his lads looking for a safe place to hide. Fergus sighs heavily. He must look a right state, but at least he is dressed, and it’s the middle of the night. Nobody can be expected to look put together under these circumstances. No matter what he’s going through, Fergus has never been in enough of a state to risk ignoring a friend in need. 

“Be with you in a minute,” he calls, hating the way his voice echoes. Before he goes to the front door, Fergus nips over to lock the door to his office. Best to be cautious. 

His bare feet grow cold as he crosses the floor. It’s not sticky, though, and he makes a mental note to give George a pay rise next time he’s working. That young man has been working absolute wonders for him while he’s been struggling his way through the past few days, utter professionalism. When Fergus moves on, like he always has to – most likely straight after Gregor’s funeral – it’ll be George left with the keys.

“What do you want?” Fergus calls, his back to the wall beside the door just in case it’s someone trying anything stupid. Muffled by the wood of the door, an answering, gruff voice calls back.

“It’s me, Donovan. I’m here for a drink.”

Tension drains slowly from Fergus’s muscles as he unlocks the door to see Tommy standing there, silhouetted by the light of a lamp outside. He looks up and smirks.

“Isn’t this a bar?”

“Flaming queers only,” Fergus responds, and shuts the door. It won’t close. Tommy has stepped forward and put his foot in the gap.

“I think you’ll be making an exception right about now.”

Without the energy left to argue, Fergus lets him in.

“What will you be having then?” he asks, walking back over towards the bar. “And don’t be bringing any muck in here. We’ve just cleaned.”

Obediently, Tommy takes off his hat and jacket, hanging them up by the front door.

“Whiskey,” he answers.

“And will you be paying?” asks Fergus as his hands flutter over the rows of glass bottles, searching for the correct one. God, but it’s been a while since he’s had a chance to tend bar. He misses it, in a strange way. Going up in the world means leaving your first world behind.

“I was told this one’s on you,” Tommy replies. Turning, bottle in hand, Fergus watches as he pulls a coin from his pocket and places it slowly, deliberately on the bar between them. He recognizes it immediately as the same one he had tossed to Arthur.

_‘Give your brother my regards…’_

Fergus sighs, heart sinking.

“I take it this is a matter of business rather than pleasure, then. Look, if it’s about the pub, I’ll survive without it, and if it’s about the dancing, forget it, and if it’s about anything else, then well, I’d take it as a personal favour if we let the business alone until I’ve found enough of Gregor to bury.”

“That’s assuming there’s still business worth doing.”

Now that’s unexpected. Fergus bristles a little, stepping backwards and leaning against a low cabinet. It’s a struggle to keep his voice even.

“I don’t understand. The first few deliveries came without a bother, and I told you I’d keep a report on how the increased shipments work for us. Sales are up. We havenae even had a window panned in since we first struck our deal. I’ve seen a fair few of your faces in here on occasion, looking happy as can be. What’s not worth doing?”

Tommy is stepping round the bar now, glaring, and Fergus finds himself thinking back on where the concealed weapons are in his bar just in case someone comes to make trouble. He’s heard about Tommy’s viciousness and anger before, but hearing about it is one matter. Facing the full force of it is a whole different one.

“The thing is, I don’t strike deals with strangers,” he says, somehow contriving to be both conversational and threatening. “I ask around among my friends, and I have oh so many friends, Donovan. I’ve had people all the way from Glasgow, Inverness, saying they know you, and will vouch for you. That’s why we struck our deal. But I’ve also heard whispers to the contrary. They say you’re not who you claim.”

The blood runs ice-hot in Fergus’s chest as terror floods him, terror which takes a hold of his heart and lungs and _tightens_ with Tommy’s next words. He’s stepped closer, threateningly so. Fergus can smell alcohol on his breath as he continues. As he pronounces the death sentence.

“Fergus Donovan does not exist.” 

“Please,” breathes Fergus through a throat choked with horror, “don’t.”

Tommy continues as though he hasn’t said a word.

“See, I did some digging. Called in some favours at the census offices. And I’ll admit you covered your tracks well, but those whispers grew just a little louder, a little more assured- how you like your gossip, I thought you’d have guessed I’d find it eventually.”

He tosses a few sheets of thick, high-quality paper onto the bar. Stamped across the certificate, black as shame, is a name Fergus had sworn he would never see again. He knows without looking that the reverse of the paper contains even more words he should have burned. Time and place of birth. Weight. Mother’s name, father’s occupation.

Physical description.

Yeah, that’d be putting it lightly.

"This here, I thought, was quite the discovery. Quite the lie to be keeping all these years. Is that why you left? When the whisperings started, is that why you ran down here like you’ve been running all these years from-“ He paused, eyes flickering over the paper- “Islay? And then, Donovan, I found myself asking a different question. Is there anything else you've been lying to me about?"

The fear doesn’t drain so much as it’s pushed out of reach by a tide of anger. Fergus is swollen with it, so many words crowding the tip of his tongue that he feels about to choke. How dare he? How dare this man, with no right to be there, walk into his bar and bring so many years past with him? Acquaintances only a few months, why should he have any claim on Fergus’s history? Fuck him. Fuck it all, fuck every rule he’s ever had. The secret’s out? Sure, if you choose to see it that way. But Fergus has always been pretty good at changing perspectives.

With a sharp breath, digging his thumb into the edge of his belt buckle to steady himself, Fergus lets all the unnecessary words fall away and finds exactly those he needs. The shaking in his voice turns to steel.

"I'm just as much a man as you, Shelby, and I try to be an honest one. God simply makes mistakes sometimes. Quite frankly I don't blame him. All us millions of people on the planet, and a handful of us he gets the details wrong. Well, it doesn't bother him."

"Just as much a man as me?"

Bitter scorn drips from Tommy’s voice. Fergus feels sick to his stomach.

"Yes."

"Hm. Tell me, Donovan, were you ever a soldier?"

Tommy is backing up, relaxing now his proclamation has been made, but Fergus won’t let him. He can feel the rage building, coming out in his tone as all his energy goes into stopping his fists from flying. As he speaks he reaches carefully up to his shirt collar and fumbles his way down the buttons one by one.

"They wouldn't let me join up. Funny, that. Must have been on account of how young and pretty I am. I'll tell you this, though-"

His trembling fingers finally fall away from his shirt front and it opens to reveal the twin lopsided scars across his chest.

"I've been to hell and back to make sure they'll have me for the next one."

And suddenly Tommy isn’t threatening any more. Instead he's staring, taken aback. Fergus laughs coldly.

"Good, isn't it? They can't do anything about the rest, aside from some new treatment I'm hearing rumours of involving pig's bollocks or something that might help me grow a beard some day, but now I can look myself in the eye without too much loathing, and that's worth hell, Mr Shelby."

Tommy seems speechless for a moment, opening his mouth but nothing comes out. He swallows and tries again.

"Tommy," he says in a hoarse whisper, eyes not leaving Fergus’s chest.

Fergus manages a hollow, mirthless laugh.

"Tommy. Okay."

There’s a long pause. Slowly Fergus walks forward, backs Tommy into a chair.

“Sit.”

Tommy does. Fergus picks up the whiskey bottle he’d initially picked out and returns it to its place above the bar. Savours the feeling of uncertain eyes on him, considers his next words. They’re carefully chosen but if he’s honest it’s surprisingly easy – this is a conversation he’s been practicing for years, praying he’d never have to have it.

“I’ve got powerful friends, Tommy, and I’m not afraid of this. In fact I’m glad you brought it.”

He walks back out from the bar, making his way over towards the table where Tommy sits. He leans down onto his elbows. Tommy tries to avoid his gaze but it won’t work for long. Eventually he has to look at Fergus. There’s nowhere else to look. There’s a lighter sitting heavy in Fergus’s trouser pocket and he pulls it out, uses it to light the candle sitting in the centre of the table. With a swift flick of his wrist, and without breaking eye contact, Fergus tilts the long candlestick down until the edge of the birth certificate takes light.

Words he should have burned. Well, they’re burning now. The same heat licks at the edges of his words, anger not quite subsided.

“So, now that we fully understand each other-“

And then he stops. There’s something in Tommy’s expression, perhaps a twitch of a lip or a glint in those bright blue eyes, gone too soon to identify but enough to make Fergus stumble. Pain begins to nudge at him again, his skin practically crawling with its hundred minor injuries and his heart thudding like a policeman’s boots in muck at every thought of Gregor. He sags into a seat. 

“Naw. I don’t have the strength.”

With some effort, Fergus looks up again, though his gaze seems to slide away every time he’s at risk of meeting Tommy’s eyes.

“I just about killed a boy today, Tommy, for what I did. For Gregor. Arthur must have telt you. Just a boy he was, not yet twenty-one. I mind when I was that age. Difficult times. Difficult. He didnae deserve that. Gregor wouldnae have wanted it that way.”

He pauses to take a breath, and a swig of his drink.

“The only brother I ever had was Gregor. The only family. Mam died, Gregor’s mammy never took to me, and as for my faither? I don’t know who Mam put down on that paper there, but I wouldnae ken him from Jock Tamson. No that it matters now, I suppose.”

There’s a long few seconds where all is silent. Fergus drags his eyes upward to Tommy’s, and to his surprise finds that the unreadable expression is back, though clear now. Clear yet inexplicable. Tommy looks almost guilty.

“Did you come here just to threaten me with the names of dead girls and unborn sons? You have your own pub, I can hardly imagine you’d come all the way here for a whiskey.”  
Tommy sits down opposite him and takes out his packet of cigarettes, lighting one and taking a long drag. Fergus drinks, and waits, until he replies.

"My bar reeks of my business. I needed a night off."

"And you come to me to get off? Why Tommy, I'm honoured."

The flirtation is habitual and half-hearted. Fergus just doesn’t have the energy. Giving him all the respect he deserves Tommy waves a dismissive hand, but he’s smiling.

"Not tonight. But I'll take a whiskey."

"You will not."

"I'm sorry- what?"

The surprise in Tommy’s voice is genuine as he sits up straighter, leans forward like he’s going to make a threat. Fergus could laugh if everything didn’t feel so horribly cold. Nobody can really threaten him any more. When he replies, it’s in a voice hollow and hardened.

"You're drunk already, and you'll take a cordial before you take anything else. You're in my bar."

"And your bar won't sell a man a drink?"

Tommy is incredulous, almost laughing. Not in the mood, Fergus doubles down.

"Not if he's drunk nothing but whiskey all day. Too many of us kill ourselves already, Tommy, one way or another. I won't have any of those bodies on my head. Now you're not one of mine, as far as I've heard at least, but we don't discriminate here. Mine or not, I have rules. Drink your cordial, tell me your problems, and then maybe after we can have a whiskey."

There’s another long pause before Tommy relents.

"Alright. Thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter I first wrote the notes for, and the chapter I built the rest of the story around. Hopefully it's worth it.


	13. Chapter 13

"Can I have my whiskey now?" asks Tommy, one reluctant cordial later. Fergus crosses to the bar, pushing away the headache that’s threatening to form behind his eyes. The whiskey bottle fits so naturally in his hands as he pulls it from the shelf, pours a generous glass. As he watches the honey-coloured liquid flow and swirl, he speaks.

"So what's the real reason you're all the way over here in the middle of the night?"

A moment of silence the length of a heartbeat. Fergus looks up and sees Tommy looking at the end of his cigarette, contemplative and a little far away. He speaks carefully, considering every syllable.

"I shouldn't trust you."

What can Fergus do but laugh? Nobody trusts him. Nobody trusts Tommy, nobody in fucking London trusts anyone farther than they can shoot.

"I never said you should,” he replies, walking back to the table, glass in one hand, the other wrapped tight around the cool, damp bottleneck.

"I shouldn't trust you,” Tommy repeats. “You're a fucking queer. You're a fucking socialist. You're a fucking republican too, I bet."

The hint of a smile starts around Fergus’s mouth.

"Guilty as charged. And I'll tell you what else I am."

He looks Tommy directly in the eye and smirks. The glass slides smooth as satin across the table.

"I'm your fucking barman."

Tommy gives a soft, empty laugh. For an instant his hand covers Fergus’s as he takes the glass, takes a drink. Fergus glances momentarily down and away, then continues.

"I'm your fucking barman, and with a wee bit time, Tommy, and assuming such things are even possible for you, I'd rather like to be your fucking friend too."

Tommy’s face falls at that. It’s not quite the usual response to an offer of friendship, though somehow also a far cry from the typical response to a threat. The middle of the night holds too much that is strange and unexpected. Fergus can’t quite tell if he should be wary. He fixes his gaze on Tommy’s face and narrows his eyes, studying the way Tommy’s expression changes as he takes a long, slow drink of Fergus’s best hometown whiskey. Despite the generous gulp and the overwhelming flavor, Tommy doesn’t show even a hint of a grimace until long after he replaces the glass on the table. Until he reaches into his trouser pocket. The hand which emerges is closed and for a moment Fergus can’t make out what it’s holding, can’t tell what Tommy is planning until he places it on the table with a loud, solemn noise.

The switchblade seems to be staring at Fergus with something like an accusation. Then again, maybe that’s just the lack of sleep.

Fergus breathes slowly, trying to think. The air crystalizes around him.

"We try not to encourage weapons in here,” he says, letting each word drop into place. Non-confrontational, but firm. It’s a line he knows how to walk. Tommy looks away, and when he looks back he’s wearing a grimace disguised as a smile. His arms are folded. Unspoken but as clear as any words; I’m not touching it. The words he does say are just as forced.

"I didn't bring a gun, out of courtesy to you, but truth be told there is another reason I'm here tonight and I’d rather hope you would have chased me away before we had a chance to get to it. My conscience, such as is left, guided me here. And... I don't think you'll be my friend after I tell you why."

"So you brought me a knife."

It’s a statement, not a question; something certain in its uncertainty, like everything else in Fergus’s life, and everything under the moonlight. Tommy shrugs as he replies in the same measured tone.

"The weapon is here between us. I am unarmed and I can see you are too. All I ask, is that you hear me out before you try to pick it up."

“I’m not sure I like where this is going.”

“Be sure. You won’t.”

Tommy takes a deep breath, hesitating on the exhale to prolong the waiting, the phantom breath of the smoker without a cigarette to numb the pain any longer. The hairs on Fergus’s arms stand on end like there’s electricity in the air. Without consciously choosing to, he leans onto his back foot, ready for something to come. Tommy’s words hit like bricks.

“I was the one who lit up the pub. I was-“

Whatever the end of that sentence may have been is lost in an inhuman scream and a choked-off gasp. Fergus leaps without comprehending, one hand scooping the knife off the table, the other curling around Tommy’s throat as though by cutting off the sentence it will stop being true. The coiled energy carries him through it and beyond. A dance he knows every step to, but never like this. It doesn’t matter much. Before he’s even run out of air, Fergus has him up against the wall, the tip of the switchblade levelled squarely at his throat.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t take my revenge now,” he hisses through gritted teeth. Flecks of spittle splash against Tommy’s face but his muscles don’t even twitch. Every inch of him is tense, focused on the knifepoint digging into his skin and the bare hint of breath he can still muster. “One good reason why I shouldn’t take your breath away for good, not just like I fancied for a second before you leave. One explanation that will stop me from slitting your lying, treacherous throat then killing every man you ever fought alongside for good measure.”

“It was an accident.”

“Fuck you!”

The words echo strangely around the empty bar. Tommy flinches slightly. Drops of blood, one at a time, start to bead at the tip of the blade.

“That’s how you fucking knew! That’s why you were there, you bastard, you knew!”

Releasing his throat but not lowering the knife, Fergus swings the half-full bottle up from the table and splashes a pint of his best whiskey down Tommy’s shirtfront. Slowly. Deliberately. Where the first splash didn’t reach he pours, like he’s tending bar once more. His heartbeat roars in his ears so loud that he wonders if he’d even hear the explanation Tommy swore he had. Once satisfied with his work, he swaps the bottle for a candle. Tommy’s breath hitches in fear.

“I ask again,” Fergus says, dangerously calm, “what is there stopping me from doing to you exactly what you did to the best fucking man I’ve ever known. Hm? Not just that, what’s to stop me silencing that name from ever leaving the lips of another living soul? Words burn, Tommy, and I’ve got a mind to see you do the same. What could possibly convince me-“

He stops mid-word, his brow furrowing in confusion. Truth be told he’s already unsure how he got this far without losing his sight to that fucking cap. Also, Tommy’s lips are beginning to turn pale.

With a contemptuous snarl Fergus throws Tommy back into his chair, sends it skidding across the floor some way while Tommy splutters for breath. There’s a thin red line running down his neck from the crimson flash of the knifepoint.

“You have,” he manages, every muscle trembling under the strain of holding back, “thirty seconds, and then I will take this fire and this steel and have my way.”

“I know you’re going to leave.”

“And you wanted to keep me? You flatter me.”

“I wanted you to know that I was watching.”

“So you kill my fucking brother?”

“I didn’t-”

Tommy’s voice was rising to a shout, almost enough to match Fergus’s, but he sucks it back down through his teeth and continues, teeth clenched to hide the shaking.

“I didn’t know your brother would be there, or anyone, for that matter. I thought… I thought the place would be empty by then. I didn’t know he would stay late, I didn’t even know you would be there.”

“What kind of man doesn’t check? Who the fuck are you, Thomas Shelby, not to make sure?”

Fergus finds he doesn’t care that he’s screaming. Through the red mist that has descended over his vision, he notices Tommy flinch. His head droops, shoulders slumping in defeat, except Tommy Shelby is never beaten so easily, Fergus knows, because he’s done his fucking research-  
Breathe. Focus on the words, and the actions, and don’t listen to the beast inside your head, Fergus. Don’t be daft. Watch him.

Watch him as his head drops, and his breath stutters and catches, and the cut on his neck lets loose another drop of crimson. Watch the hand he drags across his face, the shaking gasp it smothers, watch, as he closes his eyes and when he opens them they’re looking anywhere, everywhere but Fergus.

“A man who lost his way.”

He sighs heavily and slowly, carefully, continues.

“I know it was outside of my power to stop you leaving. Bad business, anyway, to stop a man going his way. Insurance fraud is a little outside my purview, at any rate. My only intent was that you’d know that I knew. So that in future, if – perhaps, I hoped, when – you returned, to London, to Birmingham, we would be on equal terms. Not a disappearing man and a returning ghost, here to haunt, manipulate, take off guard. Two men, who have been and can again be business partners. Can be friends.”

Fergus strikes him open-handed across the face. It raises a mark, red and hot, and Tommy’s head whips back with the force of it but he continues talking.

“It was important. I had to do it alone. Your boy, I gave him a weekend’s tips on the races and sent him away. He knows me only as your associate. Short work, to convince him the task could fall to me instead.” 

Another palm stinging against Tommy’s cheek, another spray of bloodied spittle from his mouth and he gasps at the contact. Fergus sobs, but remains upright and guarded, allowing no indication of the roiling turmoil within him save the tears rolling down his cheeks. Tommy tears his eyes up and away, scraping against Fergus’s fixed gaze in passing but not making contact. Floor to ceiling, but there’s no way out here at all, not now, not any more. Watch him, as he spits harsh and gasps for fresh air that won’t come.

“It’s been… so long, Donovan. So long since I’ve heard the bombs.”

Fergus blinks away the tears, lifting an angry hand to swipe away those that won’t fall on their own. The point of the switchblade trembles between thrusting forward and clattering aside. Tommy looks pale in the faded bar-room light, so late at night without even a moon to light their way. Two traveling men, lost and without a star left above to guide them. Christ, but Fergus hates the city.

“So long,” continues Tommy, in a voice from far away. “But now, the shovels… Oh, Donovan, I wish you never have to hear the shovels at night. An honest man like you wish you were, you should never have to see the things we did in those tunnels. No knives there, Mr Donovan. None of your men, either, except those of us when we did what we had to. And now at night, the shovels, they still come. Still come, until another sound comes too.”

Tommy waves a hand, lets out a harsh gasp of air. As though pulled by the same strings, Fergus finds he, too, lets out a terrible breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

“I know you have no reason to believe me,” says Tommy, after a horrible moment. His bright blue eyes rise to meet Fergus, and Fergus drinks in the sight like he’s dying, because there’s no coming back, not now.

“No,” he replies, cold as Highland winter. “I don’t.”

“I never meant for this.”

“And yet here we are.”

Fergus sighs, and tosses the knife from one hand to the other, slips the blade into his favourite position.

“Get out, Tommy.”

The words are soft and delicate, placed there as though Fergus fears one way or another they will break.

“Get out.”

Tommy does. Every step on the polished floor a click, a clatter, a heartbeat further away. Fergus doesn’t blink as Tommy walks away; as he takes up his coat, puts his hat back low over his eyes, hiding that ocean gaze away; doesn’t blink, even once, until Tommy is out of the bar and fading away into the distance.

When he does blink, the tears once again begin to fall. Fergus lets them drop, uninhibited, to the fresh-cleaned floor.


	14. Interlude

It seems as though every morning a new story comes with more regularity than the paper. Tommy tries to close his eyes against them, but to no avail; they slip by when he stops looking, each rumour settling in his mind, in his chest, and tightening like a vice each night at the sound of the shovels. Eyes open or shut, it seems to make no difference. He sees all the way to London.

Every report seems to detail some new catastrophe that Fergus has somehow found his way into. The papers and politicians whisper about the sodomites plaguing London’s respectable streets, and Tommy laughs with something empty in his chest, a hollow weight that tells him something must be wrong. Fergus is supposed to be careful. And yet everything now seems to point some contrary direction; stories of fights, of drunken mistakes and hasty, gallows-side blackmail and bribery all that keeps everything from the precipice. Most troubling of all, he cannot shake some vague yet persistent guilt. The dock hands gossip about the blood staining their crates, say that someone pulled a knife on Fergus; a newcomer, a Scotsman as well; they say he was given all he got, but nonetheless the hushed whispers detail the way in which, for a moment, it seemed Fergus might be content simply to take the blade in his chest, before he returned to his senses and fought. Tommy finds himself fighting down nausea at the thought. And that thought, inevitably, leads to another.

Fergus, battered and bruised, stretched out on his bed, every cut and blossoming stain on his flesh bared for Tommy’s view. No matter how often the thought crosses his mind, Tommy still feels the same mixture of disgust and fascination at how easily he slips into the fantasy. Pale and freckled skin, a map, an expanse to be explored… But it never gets so far as that before the guilt takes over and he finds himself reaching, once more, for the pipe, ready to slip away and wait for the next day’s rumours to creep in. He lost his faith in praying long ago, but he curses the names of everyone who might seek to profit from Donovan’s recklessness, and hopes that will be enough.


End file.
